ULL  SWING 

"  FRANK  DANBY^ 


M 


■''M>  ^Q4i       f)^ 


FULL    SWING 


By    FRANK    DANBY 


Pigs  in  Clover 

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"By  far  the  most  powerful  and  search- 
ing piece  of  fiction  of  the  year." 

— The  Bookman 

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"  Even  more  intense  and  dramatic 
than  "Pigs  in  Clover."— .V.  Y.  Sun 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  CO. 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


FULL    SWING 


BY 


FRANK  DANBY 

ADTHOB   OP  "PIG8  DJ   CLOVEB,"  "  BACCABAT,"   ETC. 


The  Wheel  ts  come  full  circle." 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

1914 


COPTRIOHT,   I914,  BT  3.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PTTBLISHED   MAECH,  I914 


PRINTED    BT   J.   B.    LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

AT  THE  •WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA,    U.   8.    A. 


DEDICATION 

TO 

H.  M.  M. 

WHOSE  EXCEPTIONAL  FACE  AND  FIGURE  I  HAVE 
SOMETIMES  BORROWED  TO  DECK  A  HERO  OR 
ADORN  A  '\T[LLAIN,  BUT  WHOSE  FINE  LOYALTY 
AND  GENIUS  FOR  FRIENDSHIP  I  HAVE  ALWAYS 
ENJOYED  WITHOUT  ATTEMPTING  TO   CHRONICLE 


09001 i  0 


FULL  SWING 

CHAPTER  I 

Agatha  Wanstead  was  barely  ten  years  old  when  the  great 
orchid,  secured  from  the  Brazils  after  infinite  tribulation 
and  almost  unimaginable  expenses,  arrived  at  Marley.  She 
saw  the  long-expected  treasure  unswathed  from  its  packings, 
wondering  at  her  father's  excitement.  Big,  bulbous  and  un- 
beautiful,  it  showed  no  promise  of  efflorescence,  appearing 
dry,  unwieldy  and  ill-shapen. 

"  At  last !  At  last !  "  cried  her  father  exultingly.  "  This 
will  astonish  them!  The  Odontoglossum  Coeleste  at  last! 
Absolutely  the  first  to  arrive  in  England  !  We  shall  have  it  in 
flower  for  the  Horticultural  Show." 

Sanders  came  with  it,  the  young  Scotch  gardener  who 
was  for  the  future  to  have  charge  of  all  the  orchids,  to 
reign,  with  such  supremacy  as  Squire  Wanstead  should  per- 
mit, over  the  quarter  of  an  acre  of  glass  that  furnished  prize- 
winners for  all  the  flower-shows  in  England.  A  space  in  one 
of  the  houses  had  been  reserved  for  the  new-comer,  and  there 
through  the  autumn  and  winter  it  hung  quiescent  in  its  new 
home. 

The  attention  of  the  whole  household,  indoors  and  out, 
was  concentrated  upon  the  plant,  and  when  spring  came 
Agatha  heard  Sanders  tell  her  father  that  it  was  putting 
forth  signs  of  growth,  that  it  was  "plumping  up."  But  his 
reports  varied  and  anxiety  deepened.  Already  April  had 
come,  when  the  child,  motherless,  a  little  lonely  and  neg- 
lected, but  never  without  knowledge  of  the  high  position  into 
which  she  was  born  and  the  desire  to  be  worthy  of  it,  began 
to  doubt  whether  the  plant  was  properly  treated.  She  heard 
her  father  talking  about  it  constantly,  questioning  this  or 
that.     Surely  what  applied  to  growing  children  applied  to 

7 


8  FULL  SWING 

growing  plants.  Fresh  air  was  the  one  thing  upon  which 
the  new  doctor  who  had  just  settled  in  Great  Marley  insisted. 
His  advice  had  been  taken.  She  was  no  longer  cooped  up  in 
the  school-room  for  lessons,  but  all  .day  long  was  in  the 
garden  or  the  "woods.  Already  she  was  better,  knew  she  too 
was  "  plumping  up,"  and  felt  the  spring  in  her  veins. 

Poor  plant!  She  thought  of  it  by  night  and  by  day,  of 
liow  it  was  hanging  up  in  the  steaming  house,  stifling,  unable 
to  breathe.  She  herself  could  hardly  breathe  in  that  hot, 
moist  air.  How  wonderful  to  be  able  to  help  it,  to  help  lier 
father  to  a  great  Joy  in  its  growth,  to  help  Sanders!  Thus 
thinking,  she  at  last  put  thought  into  action,  waking  up  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  conscience-stricken  at  her  own 
supineness  in  the  matter.  The  bed  was  warm  and  comfort- 
able, and  for  a  few  minutes  she  lay  and  wondered  whether 
the  morning  would  not  be  time  enough  for  action.  But  it 
was  not  her  disposition  then,  or  ever,  to  do  the  easy  thing. 
She  got  out  of  the  warm  bed  hurriedly,  dressed  as  well  as 
she  was  able  in  the  limited  illumination  of  the  night-light, 
ran  downstairs,  and  fumbled  open  the  locks  of  the  big  front 
door.  Then  she  went  swiftly  down  the  steps  and  across 
the  grass  to  the  hot-house.  That,  too,  was  locked,  but  she 
knew  where  the  key  was  kept.  She  found  and  fitted  it,  opened 
the  door;  the  hot,  steamy  air  rushed  out  convincingly,  and 
the  stifled  plant  had  fresh  air  at  last. 

She  slept  well  when  she  got  back  to  her  own  room.  Less 
well  the  next  night,  when  the  heinousness  of  her  conduct  was 
brought  home  to  her.  All  the  orchids  in  the  hot-house  were 
dead  or  dying,  the  new  Odontoglossum  amongst  them.  She 
slept  less  well,  not  that  she  was  conscious  of,  or  admitted, 
guilt,  not  because  she  was  scolded  or  punished,  but  because 
she  was  perj^lexed  that  one  could  do  good  and  evil  could  come 
of  it,  because  already  she  felt  dimly  that  the  right  path  might 
not  always  be  easy  to  find. 

Agatha's  conscience  was  ever  her  torment  and  her  un- 
doing. At  fifteen  years  she  was  almost  overpowered  by  the 
sense  of  her  responsibilities;  awed  by  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  Miss  Wanstead  of  Marley,  the  last  descendant  of  the 


FULL  SWING  9 

ancient  house.  She  tried  to  talk  to  her  father  about  it,  but 
he  responded  lightly.  She  was  already  uneasy  that  her  father 
took  hia  business  as  a  magistrate  and  a  great  landowner  too 
carelessly,  that  he  devoted  too  much  of  his  time  to  horti- 
culture, and  especially  to  orchids.  When,  he  became  fully 
aware  of  her  solicitude  for  him,  he  sent  her  to  boarding  school, 
where  she  was  homesick  and  miserable,  realising  that  her  own 
blundering  had  brought  about  her  banishment,  but  not  more 
reconciled  to  it  on  that  account. 

True,  his  hot-houses,  warm-houses,  cool-houses,  his 
Dendrobiums  and  Odontoglossums,  Vandas  and  Cattleyas 
were  more  important  to  Squire  Wanstead  than  Marley  or  his 
young  daughter.  He  was  the  first  of  the  orchidaceans.  What 
began  as  a  pastime  ended  as  a  passion.  Far  and  near  he 
sought  for  rare  specimens.  His  experiments  in  hybridisation 
were  the  talk  of  the  horticultural  world  as  early  as  1863.  He 
had  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  discuss  ethics  with  his 
young  daughter,  it  was  easier  to  rid  himself  of  her. 

One  experiment  he  made  of  a  culture  less  exiguous.  In 
his  sixtieth  year,  Agatha  still  at  school,  he  became  besotted 
over  a  pale  English  rose,  importing  it  hastily  to  the  terraced 
garden  of  the  Court,  where,  like  so  many  of  his  other  impor- 
tations, it  failed  to  flourish.  He  and  his  daughter  were  alike 
impulsive,  and  came  into  sad  conflict  over  this  ill-considered 
action. 

When  Agatha  returned  from  school,  full  of  desire  to  be 
a  companion  and  help  to  her  father,  to  take  her  place  as  lady 
of  the  manor  and  be  a  benefactress  to  all  Marley,  she  found 
herself  confronted  by  a  young  stepmother  about  to  bear  a 
Marley  heir,  and  by  a  father  comparatively  indifferent  to 
the  greatness  of  his  position  and  completely  oblivious  of  hers. 
Little  Marley  interested  him  very  little,  and  Great  Marley 
not  at  all. 

The  young  stepmother  wanted  smart  clothes  and  jewellery, 
a  house  in  town,  new  carriages  and  liveries,  more  horses. 
Squire  Wanstead's  hobby  was  an  expensive  one.  And  at 
Little  Marley  cottages  were  in  need  of  repair,  the  sanitation 
was  considerably  worse  than  primitive;  there  was  no  district 


10  FULL  SWING 

nurse  or  cottage  hospital.  Agatha's  sense  of  duty  burned 
hot  within  her;  she  was  young  and  spoke  in  season  and  out 
of  season.  "  They  are  our  people,  Marley  people ;  they  look 
to  us  for  help,  and  we  are  doing  nothing  for  them.  .  .  ." 
*^ou  are  a  bore,  Agatha;  nothing  but  a  bore,"  was  her 
father's  final  and  irritated  answer.  "  Damn  the  cottages  and 
Little  Marley.  Great  Marley,  too,  if  you  like.  Can't  you 
leave  things  alone  ?  " 

"  The  rain  comes  through  the  roofs,  the  woodwork  is 
all  rotten;  they  ought  to  be  rebuilt.  No  money  should  be 
spent  until  that  is  done,"  she  persisted. 

"  I  believe  she  grudges  me  the  very  food  I  eat,  the  clothes 
I  wear,"  complained  her  stepmother. 
"  I  grudge  you  nothing." 

Agatha  saw  right  and  wrong  in  unshaded  lines  of  black 
and  white.  She  was  conscientious  and  utterly  honest,  without 
guile. 

"But  we  are  not  doing  our  duty,  not  doing  the  right 
thing  by  our  people." 

The  doctor  from  Great  Marley  had  convinced  her  that 
something  should  be  done,  and  she  spoiled  the  dinner,  as  she 
had  spoiled  the  luncheon,  by  talking  of  drains  and  diphtheria, 
water  and  germs. 

"  Such  talk  is  so  bad  for  me,"  pouted  young  Mrs. 
Wanstead. 

"  Can't  you  see  you  are  upsetting  her  ?  "  said  the  squire 
angrily. 

"Dr.  Eeid  says  I  am  not  to  be  agitated,"  echoed  the 
expectant  mother,  plaintively. 

Agatha  took  life  seriously,  and  wanted  to  do  her  duty 
in  a  properly  feudal  manner.  There  was  hardly  a  truce  in 
the  arguments  that  ensued  between  her  and  her  futile,  ex- 
travagant stepmother,  between  her  and  her  irritated  father. 
Her  desire  for  justice  and  sense  of  responsibility  were  streaked 
with  periods  of  doubt,  fears  lest  she  lacked  filial  piety. 
Although  she  could  not  help  criticising  her  father,  she  had  a 
.  deep-seated  respect  for  him  as  the  head  of  the  house.  She 
would  have  cared  for  him  but  that  her  heart  had  not  begun 


FULL  SWING  II 

to  grow;  it  was  so  overladen  with  conscientiousness.  Yet  there 
was  undoubtedly  a  substratum  of  tenderness  in  it,  and  when 
her  feeble  stepmother  was  ill  and  nervous,  she  made  tenta- 
tive, a  little  awkward,  and  somewhat  pathetic,  efforts  toward 
reconciliation. 

The  moment  was  inopportune  for  the  expected  event. 
The  threatened  diphtheria  at  Marley  made  its  appearance 
in  the  form  of  one  mild  case  of  endemic  typhoid.  But  in- 
stead of  new  drainage,  there  was  a  hasty  exodus  to  London. 
That  it  was  the  season  for  Messrs.  Protheroe  and  Morris's 
auction  sales  of  orchids  may  have  influenced  Squire  Wanstead, 
but  he  never  admitted  this,  nor  that  the  season's  gaieties,  too 
much  dissipation,  and  many  imprudences  were  responsible 
for  the  disastrous  result.  The  baby  girl  was  bom  into  a 
motherless  world.  There  was  no  male  heir  to  unentailed 
Marley,  there  was  only  a  little  stepsister  whose  birth  cost 
her  mother's  life  and  left  Squire  Wanstead,  his  mind  stag- 
gering a  little  under  the  blow,  more  unreasonable  than  before, 
and  with  a  perpetual  grievance,  a  grievance  that  he  nurtured 
until  the  end.  He  was  convinced  that  Agatha  had  driven 
them  from  Marley,  and  was  responsible  for  her  stepmother's 
death. 

Squire  Wanstead  was  never  the  same  man  after  his  second 
wife  died  in  childbirth.  He  became  querulous  and  always 
more  exacting  and  unreasonable,  accepting  many  sacrifices 
from  his  elder  daughter,  but  never  forgiving  her ;  dying  with 
a  dim  idea  that  it  was  her  fault,  too,  that  the  Odontoglossum 
Cceleste  showed  leaves  but  never  a  spike. 

Agatha  suffered  his  reproaches,  believing  sometimes  that 
they  were  deserved.  For,  incidentally,  it  has  to  be  admitted 
that  no  infection  spread,  the  sporadic  case  of  typhoid  having 
no  successor.  The  form  her  remorse  took  was  the  care  she 
gave  to  the  bereaved  baby.  Her  troublesome  conscience  made 
it  inevitable. 

Suitors  came  to  Marley  after  her  father's  death.  She  had 
as  much  of  good  looks  as  was  compatible  with  complete  indif- 
ference to  them,  owing  nothing  to  dress  or  cosmetics.  Her 
skin  was  clear  and  her  eyes  bright;  she  was  accounted  some- 


12  FULL  SWING 

thing  of  an  heiress.  Sir  John  Campden  came  from  Denham 
with  the  lure  of  adjoining  land;  Lord  Deerhaven,  from 
Amherst,  with  a  pedigree  as  distinguished  as  her  own,  and, 
surprisingly,  Andrew  McKay,  the  family  lawyer,  familiar  to 
her  and  valued,  but  not  associated  in  her  mind  with  courtship. 

But  she  would  have  none  of  them,  more  serious  things 
than  courtship  absorbed  her.  At  three-and-twenty  she  was 
mistress  of  Marley,  her  little  stepsister  Monica,  and  the  wel- 
fare of  all  the  tenantry. 

There  had  been  a  gathering  of  orchidaceans  at  her  father's 
funeral  and  handsome  tributes  in  the  Press,  and  she  deter- 
mined to  sustain  the  reputation  of  the  Marley  Court  hot- 
houses and  her  father's  culture.  She  was  full  of  good  reso- 
lutions, and  if  she  magnified  her  own  importance  in  the 
scheme  of  creation,  she  was  nevertheless,  and  secretly,  some- 
what diffident  of  her  capacity  to  fulfil  her  obligations.  Her 
father's  attitude  toward  her  had  cut  away  some  of  her  self- 
esteem  and  implanted  a  deep-rooted  shyness.  Marley,  of 
course,  was  the  capital  of  the  universe.  She  saw  Little  Marley 
redrained,  schools  built,  public-houses  banished  and  clubs 
substituted.  What  she  never  saw  at  all  was  Andrew  McKay 
looking  at  her  with  appreciative  eyes. 

Three  generations  of  McKays  had  kept  the  dusty  archives 
of  Marley.  Andrew  knew  everything  that  was  to  be  known 
about  the  history  of  the  family,  could  advise  about  leases  and 
forfeitures  and  the  powers  of  local  government  boards.  He 
could  talk,  too,  about  orchids,  and  had,  indeed,  a  taste  for 
horticulture. 

He  came  to  her  a  month  after  her  father's  funeral,  a  strong, 
reliable  man,  with  a  slight  Scotch  accent  and  a  Scotch  inten- 
sity of  purpose,  a  few  years  older  than  herself,  and  with  no 
idea  that  she  looked  upon  him  as  anything  but  her  equal.  And 
why  not  ?  The  small  landed  gentry,  and  it  was  amongst  these 
that  the  heiress  of  Marley  was  placed,  held  no  undue  impor- 
tance in  his  mind.  He  had  ample  means,  a  fine  county  busi- 
ness, and  a  high  reputation.  It  was  time  he  took  a  wife,  and 
Agatha  was  the  wife  he  wanted. 

For  a  month  he  had  been  coming  and  going,  making  his 


FULL  SWING  13 

meaning  clear.  So  he  thought.  But  Agatha  had  seen  only 
in  his  attentions  the  little  business  matters  that  he  had  used 
as  excuses;  the  proving  of  her  father's  will  and  satisfaction 
of  the  claims  of  the  Inland  Revenue,  the  transfer  of  farms 
and  resettlement  of  tenures.  She  "was  always  glad  when  he 
came.  He  was  sympathetic  with  all  her  views,  clear-minded, 
sound  on  sanitation  and  the  better  housing  of  the  agricultural 
labourer.  Unlike  her  father  and  the  majority  of  her  acquaint- 
ances, he  did  not  say  it  was  no  concern  of  hers,  nor  show  by 
disapproval  that  he  thought  her  interest  in  such  things 
unwomanly. 

But,  nevertheless,  on  the  day  when  he  pushed  the  papers 
on  one  side,  and  abruptly,  without  any  preamble,  asked  her 
if  she  would  marry  him,  she  was  dumbfounded.  At  first  she 
thought  she  could  have  been  no  more  astonished  if  Sanders 
himself  had  asked  her.  But  she  quickly  recognised  the 
absurdity  of  the  parallel.  When  she  remembered  that  Andrew 
McKay  was  her  equal  in  everything  but  blood  she  grew  hot, 
for  she  was  not  really  a  snob,  only  somewhat  overburdened 
by  her  lineage. 

She  answered  hastily  that  it  was  impossible,  then,  quite 
seriously,  that  she  never  intended  to  marry.  Her  flush 
emboldened  him. 

"It  will  take  me  years  to  put  the  estate  in  order,"  she 
said  breathlessly,  and  to  gain  time. 

"  I  could  help  you." 

"  I  don't  want  any  help." 

He  pressed  his  suit,  and  she  took  refuge  in  phrases  that 
even  to  her  own  ears  began  to  sound  empty  and  meaningless. 
Although  she  was  seeing  him  in  a  new  aspect,  she  could  not 
deny  that  she  had  always  liked  him,  and  sometimes  listened 
to  him.  Sir  John  Campden  was  red-haired,  with  white  eye- 
lashes, and  coarse,  freckled  hands.  It  had  cost  her  nothing 
to  refuse  him,  although  their  lands  lay  in  a  ring  fence.  Lord 
Deerhaven  was  a  delicate  decadent,  talking  culture,  but  need- 
ing money  to  patch  up  his  broken  fortunes.  She  had  sent  him 
away  without  a  qualm.     Neither  of  them  had  spoken  a8 


14  FULL  SWING 

Andrew  McKay  was  speaking  now,  nor  looked  at  her  in  the 
same  way. 

He  got  up  from  the  table  and  came  over  to  her. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  I  cared  for  you." 

"  Oh,  no !  " 

"I  told  your  father  of  my  wish  before  lie  died,  and  he 
was  quite  content." 

"My  father!" 

"  That  surprises  you.    I  don't  know  why." 

"  Only  because — ^because "    But  she  could  not  tell  him 

why.    He  would  have  taken  her  hand,  but  she  put  it  behind  her. 

"I  ...  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing,"  she  said. 
The  blood  was  hot  in  her  cheeks. 

"What  sort  of  thing?'' 

"  Love  making." 

He  was  sorry  for  her  flush  and  awkwardness;  thinking 
it  virginal,  not  unseemly,  part  of  her  unique  charm. 

"Then  I  won't  make  love  to  you."  He  added  quietly, 
"  Not  yet."  At  which  she  reddened  more  and  thought  it 
was  from  indignation.  "  I  have  to  persuade  you  first  to 
marry  me.    Will  you  talk  it  out  with  me?  " 

It  was  difficult  for  her  to  refuse  when  he  stood  so  close 
to  her,  clear-eyed  and  strong,  rugged  yet  purposeful,  quite 
new  in  this  aspect. 

"  You  can  say  what  you  like ;"  and  then  added  quickly : 
"  but  my  mind  is  quite  made  up." 

"  Against  matrimony,  or  against  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Matrimony — you — ^both."  She  found  it  difficult  to 
recover  her  self-possession. 

"  Because  of  your  responsibilities  and  duties  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  partly.  And  Monica."  She  was  hard  pressed  for 
excuses ;  she  had  not  guessed  she  liked  him  so  well. 

"  A  husband  and  children  are  the  best  responsibilities  for 
a  woman." 

"  I  don't  think  so ;  not  for  a  woman  in  my  position.  The 
idea  is  old-fashioned."  She  was  standing  up,  speaking  a 
little  more  quickly  than  was  usual  with  her. 


FULL  SWING  15 

"  Perhaps  it  is  old-fashioned  to  want  you  for  my  wife. 
But  I  do." 

What  was  in  her  eyes  and  voice  made  her  fearful  of  herself. 

"  If  you  will  take  me  for  a  husband  you  will  take  a  man 
who  cares  for  you  more  than  he  can  tell." 

"  I  don't  want  a  husband,"  she  answered  abruptly,  redden- 
ing again,  as  any  girl  who  was  not  a  Miss  Wanstead  of 
Marley  might  have  done. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  want.  How  should  you  ?  " 
he  said  tenderly.  His  arms  would  have  gone  about  her,  but 
she  was  holding  herself  too  upright.  "  Let  me  teach  you.  I 
understand  you  better  than  anyone  else  has  ever  understood 
you,  or  ever  will;  the  hard  surface  and  difficult  softness 
beneath ;  how  dogmatic  you  are,  and  yet  impulsive ;  how  easily 
moved  and  quickly  ashamed  of  it." 

"I  hate  being  analysed.     I  am  not  at  all  easily  moved." 

But  he  could  see  her  uneasiness,  and  was  encouraged  by  it. 

"  You  will  not  admit  it,  but  you  are  moved  now.  Perhaps 
you  like  me  better  than  you  know."    He  went  closer  to  her. 

But  he  was  employing  the  wrong  methods.  Agatha  was 
not  really  like  other  girls  and  women.  She  had  a  sense 
rudimentary  or  lacking,  stumbling  through  life,  therefore,  as 
a  lame  man  walks.  She  resented  Andrew  McKay's  advance. 
Finding  herself  breathless,  as  if  she  had  been  running,  she 
was  angry  with  him,  with  herself,  and  with  the  circum- 
stances; she  was  sure  it  was  only  anger  she  felt. 

"You  can't  mean  to  send  me  away,  to  say  'no'  to  me. 
There  is  nothing  you  want  to  do  in  which  I  could  not  be  of 
use  to  you.    No  woman  is  fit  to  stand  alone,  you  least  of  all." 

Her  instinctive  sex-antagonism  took  quick  refuge  in 
exclamation,  denial. 

"  I !  I  am  not  fit  to  stand  alone !  I  want  no  help  from 
anyone." 

"  It  is  not  true,  dear,  it  is  not  true." 

And  when  he  called  her  "  dear  "  her  heart  shook,  although 
outwardly  she  was  still  rigid  and  unconvinced.  He  went  on, 
although  perhaps  with  less  confidence,  for  he  had  hoped  by 
now  to  find  her  in  his  arms. 


16  FULL  SWING 

"  For  all  you  are  so  strong,  you  are  weak ;  your  heart  is 
soft  under  that  surface  hardness.  Your  father  imposed  upon 
you;  the  baby  does  so  already;  other  people  will.  You  don't 
know  yourself." 

"  Xobody  can  impose  upon  me ;  it  is  not  true." 

"  You  need  someone  to  care  for  you,  to  see  you  make  no 
bad  mistakes,  help  your  folly  to  wisdom,  your  dear  conscien- 
tious follies.  I  love  you."  He  may  not  have  been  a  good 
wooer,  but  he  was  an  earnest  one. 

When  Andrew  McKay  said  he  loved  her,  notwithstanding 
her  missing  sense,  right  in  the  soft  core  of  that  small,  hard 
heart  of  hers  Agatha  was  conscious  of  a  vibration,  something 
that  in  an  ordinary  girl  might  have  brought  them  together. 
But  the  vibration  inspired  Agatha  with  fear,  and  she  defended 
herself  from  him  hurriedly,  impetuously,  and  so  well  that  he 
retreated  from  her,  chilled,  disappointed. 

"  You  will  think  differently  some  day,"  was  the  last 
thing  he  said.    "  I  can  wait." 

Having  brought  him  to  this  she  may  have  repented,  but 
she  succeeded  so  well  in  disguising  it,  resuming  their  business 
talk  as  if  nothing  had  interrupted  it,  that  he  became  reluc- 
tantly convinced  she  meant  what  she  said,  that  she  would  not 
marry,  that  under  the  clear  skin  and  bright  eyes  she  was  not 
a  woman  at  all,  but  only  a  syllogist.  He  asked  her  the  same 
question  again,  nevertheless,  on  several  occasions.  But,  true 
to  her  want  of  temperament,  the  more  she  inclined  to  him 
the  greater  seemed  the  necessity  of  retreat.  And  in  the  end, 
his  heart  not  caught  in  the  rebound,  but  feeling  the  necessity 
of  a  home,  he  found  a  more  amenable,  if  less  rare,  woman, 
proposed  to  her,  and  was  gladly  accepted. 

Andrew  McKay  married.  And  that  was  the  end  of 
Agatha's  girlhood.  He  had  come  to  mean  so  much  more  to 
her  than  either  of  them  knew  or  guessed.  She  had  said 
"  no,"  and  "  no "  again  to  him,  but  never  thought  of  him 
marrying  elsewhere.  Perhaps  he  realised  it  when  he  made 
the  announcement  and  saw  the  sudden  pallor  of  her  cheeks. 
But  he  may  well  have  thought,  even  then,  that  he  had  been 
mistaken.  For  she  congratulated  him  with  apparent  sin- 
cerity, and  said,  with  all  her  young  dignity  vibrant,  that  she 


FULL  SWING  17 

hoped  ills  marriage  would  make  no  difference  in  their  business 
relationships. 

"  I  have  come  to  rely  upon  you,"  she  went  on,  and 
smiled  condescendingly,  or,  at  least,  he  read  that  small  forced 
smile  as  condescending. 

He  replied  soberly  that  he  was  glad  of  it. 

"  You  will  not  abandon  Marley — or  me  ?  "  she  Eidded, 
more  naturally. 

"  Marley  and  you  will  always  be  my  first  interest." 

It  was  true.  Andrew  McKay  married,  making  his  wife 
a  good  and  affectionate  husband.  But  Agatha  Wanstead  was 
his  first  and  only  love.  No  one  ever  saw  her  with  the  same 
eyes  as  he  did.  After  his  marriage,  and  notwithstanding  his 
loyalty  to  his  wife,  they  grew  in  intimacy  and  understanding. 
He  was  lawyer  to  the  estate,  and  spent  much  time  in  repairing 
her  mistakes. 


CHAPTEE  11 

There  are  Great  Marley,  and  Little  Marley,  and  Marley 
of  the  Woods.  In  the  first,  strikingly  incongruous  with  the 
new  shops  and  houses,  the  bank  and  the  brewery,  the  red 
brick  town  hall  and  adjacent  police  station,  there  stands, 
together  with  an  ivy-grown  parsonage  of  questionable  date, 
the  famous  old  church  that  attracts  tourists  and  sightseers 
from  all  parts  of  the  world.  The  church,  with  its  frescoes 
and  stained-glass  windows,  its  monuments  and  brasses,  the 
chancel  dated  1519,  the  screen  and  christening  font,  was 
"restored''  in  the  year  1794.  Time  has  hallowed  these 
restorations.  A  monument  by  Nollekens  to  the  memory  of 
''  Hannah  Wanstead  and  her  nine  children,"  and  a  medallion 
by  Flaxman,  compete  now  in  interest  with  the  sixteenth 
century  brasses. 

From  the  old  church,  leaving  the  new  town  behind,  is 
the  beautiful  walk  to  Little  Marley,  through  the  natural 
avenue  of  wych  elms,  their  huge  trunks  spreading  from  a 
single  stem,  umbrageous  and  cool  in  the  summer,  weird  and 
wonderful  in  the  winter.  Little  Marley  is  hardly  more  than 
a  hamlet,  a  single  street  of  thatched,  half-timbered  cottages, 
with  a  stream  running  along  one  side  of  it,  a  stream  that 
eventually  winds  its  way  back  to  the  Thames. 

Beyond  the  gorse-clad  hills  lies  Marley  Chase,  three 
separate  woods,  where  high  amid  the  encompassing  pines  the 
old  house  shows,  E-shaped  and  grey,  as  when  James  I.  was 
king. 

Here,  as  piously  as  modem  conditions  allow,  Agatha 
Wanstead  prepared  to  sustain  the  feudal  traditions  for  the 
sake  of  which  she  had  rejected  Andrew  McKay. 

In  Great  Marley  she  had  some  small  property,  besides 
the  family  brasses  in  the  old  church.  Little  Marley  and 
"  Marley  of  the  Woods  "  were  her  own,  together  with  a  few 
outlying  farms  and  the  Chase. 

18 


FULL  SWING  19 

In  the  management  of  this  estate  during  the  years  that 
followed  her  rejection  of  Andrew  she  made  every  mistake 
that  is  possible  to  feminine  ignorance  and  inexperience. 
She  built  elaborate  model  cottages  that  no  workman  would 
occupy,  established  a  system  of  drainage  at  Little  Marley  for 
which  there  was  no  outlet,  was  sympathetic  and  indulgent  to 
bad  tenants,  and  bent  on  forcing  the  good  ones  to  new  and 
costly  agricultural  experiments.  She  was  at  first  unpopular 
with  her  neighbours,  but  when  they  understood  the  motives 
that  actuated  her,  the  most  intelligent  amongst  them  forgave 
her  methods.  She  made  good  and  even  enthusiastic  friends. 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Metherby,  for  instance,  who  lamented  her 
independence;  the  vicar  and  his  wife,  who  realised  her  gen- 
erosity; Sir  John  Campden's  wife,  who  was  perhaps  grateful 
to  her  for  having  refused  him,  and  Dr.  Eeid. 

Outwardly,  at  least,  as  the  years  progressed  she  appeared 
satisfied  with  the  conditions  under  which  she  lived.  There 
was  nothing  too  great  or  too  small  for  her  restless  energies. 
To  all  the  household  of  the  Court,  outside  and  inside,  she  was 
an  exacting  but  considerate  mistress.  In  Little  Marley  she 
was  Lady  Paramount,  dispensing  beef  tea,  blankets,  bibles, 
advice.  She  told  herself  often  that  she  had  been  right  in 
refusing  to  marry,  that  she  needed  no  husband;  her  life  was 
full.  And  she  learned  her  work,  repairing  her  mistakes  when 
they  were  brought  home  to  her,  always  self-conscious  but 
never  self-satisfied. 

With  the  land  it  was  comparatively  easy,  although  expen- 
sive. Sanders  was  a  canny  Scotsman.  When  he  thought 
she  might  be  right  he  followed  her  instructions ;  at  other  times 
he  followed  his  own.  The  orchids,  therefore,  continued  to 
flourish  after  Squire  Wanstead's  death,  winning  prizes  still 
in  London  and  at  all  the  local  shows.  Agatha  pursued  her 
father's  hobby  at  first  from  a  sense  of  duty,  but  presently  she 
fell  under  the  fascination  of  the  exotic  blooms.  That  was 
the  most  dangerous  time,  but  Sanders  won  through,  making 
only  permissible  experiments. 

She  learned  to  manage  Marley  and  the  orchids,  but 
Monica,  her  little  wayward  stepsister  Monica,  who  was  her 


20  FULL  SWING 

only  relative  and  greatest  responsibility,  she  never  learned  to 
manage. 

Agatha,  when  she  was  little  more  than  thirty,  dressed  as 
if  she  were  fifty,  and  had  few  apparent  feminine  weaknesses 
or  tendernesses.  Yet,  for  all  her  certainty  that  the  Wanstead 
tradition  and  reinstatement  of  the  ancient  glories  of  Marley 
were  enough  to  fill  any  young  woman's  life.  Nature  taught  her 
differently. 

Monica,  for  instance,  found  a  dozen  chinks  in  her 
armour,  and  was  always  creeping  through. 

The  real  truth  was  that  this  shy  and  enigmatic  young 
woman,  who  had  thrown  away  her  chances  of  happiness 
through  reserve  and  supersensitiveness,  pride  and  indefinite 
feminine  unreasonableness,  felt  her  heart  growing  when  the 
time  for  other  growth  had  passed.  Conscience  and  conscien- 
tiousness were  there,  water-logging  and  clogging  it.  But 
there  wa-s  also  this  inconsistent  weakness. 

Before  Andrew's  marriage  the  child  and  her  duty 
towards  her  had  been  one  of  the  excuses  she  made  to  herself 
for  having  rejected  him.  And  after  Andrew's  marriage  she 
came  to  believe  it  true.  Monica  was  coaxing,  a  little  sly,  not 
straightforward  and  truthful  like  herself.  She  was  often 
troubled  by  her,  but  her  love  grew  as  she  felt  the  child's 
need.  Nurse  and  the  household  watched  and  said,  "  Miss 
Monica  has  the  length  of  her  sister's  foot — can  wheedle  her." 
But  Agatha  felt  in  the  wheedling  and  little  crooked  ways  a 
continual  appeal. 

The  child  was  idle  and  averse  to  lessons;  when  she  was 
nine  years  old  she  could  neither  read  nor  write. 

"  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed,"  Agatha  said  to  her, 
when  the  governess  came  to  her  in  despair,  complaining  of 
persistent  idleness. 

"  I  am  ashamed,  sister." 

Monica  came  nearer,  caught  hold  of  her  hand.  "Don't 
be  angry  with  me.    I  only  want  to  be  with  you." 

"  Will  you  try  and  learn  if  I  give  you  your  lessons  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  could  learn  if  you  taught  me." 

And  they  began  the  very  next  day.     This  was  in  the 


FULL  SWING  51 

seventies,  and  the  higher  education  of  women  only  in  its 
infancy.  The  first  thing  Agatha  tried  to  teach  her  little 
sister  was  to  count. 

"You  will  have  to  help  me  with  the  accounts  of  the 
estate  when  you  grow  up." 

"  I  shall  like  that." 

"  Well,  we  will  begin  with  the  tables.  Eepeat  the  figures 
after  me.    Twice  one  are  two." 

Monica  repeated  them  obediently,  and  up  to  twice  five 
are  ten. 

Agatha  was  proud  of  her  success,  praising  her. 

"  You  will  soon  be  quite  a  scholar.    Twice  six  ?  " 

"  May  I  sit  on  your  lap  ?  " 

"  Not  now.    This  is  lesson  time." 

"If  it  was  my  own  mother  teaching  me,  she  would  let 
me  rest  on  her  lap,"  Monica  said  plaintively. 

"  Not  in  lesson  time,"  Agatha  repeated. 

"  My  head  aches  so." 

"  It  would  ache  no  less  if  you  were  sitting  on  my  lap." 

"  I  believe  it  would.    I  love  sitting  on  your  lap." 

"  Not  now." 

"When  I  had  the  measles  you  took  me  on  your  lap." 

"  When  you  have  the  measles  I  will  again.  Go  on.  Twice 
six  are  twelve." 

Monica  began  to  cry. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  mother  all  my  own,  like  other  little  girls. 
Janey  Reid's  mother  nurses  her  all  day." 

The  tables  went  on.  So  did  the  tears.  And  when  twice 
six  had  been  acquired  it  appeared  that  twice  two  had  been 
forgotten.  Agatha,  so  conscientious  and  strict  when  super- 
intending the  village  school,  could  not  bear  to  hear  this  child 
cry.  Monica  knew  it;  also  that  her  stepsister  winced  when 
she  spoke  of  other  little  girls  with  mothers  of  their  own. 
Agatha  was  never  without  the  remorseful  remembrance  that 
her  father  thought  it  was  she  who  was  responsible  for  her 
little  sister  being  without  a  mother.    She  wavered  and  said : 

"  If  you  really  think  you  would  do  better " 

Monica  climbed  quickly  to  her  knee.     A  woman  as  any 


22  FULL  SWING 

other,  although  reluctant  to  her  womanhoocl,  Agatha  liked 
the  little  form  upon  her  knee  and  the  curly,  satisfied  head 
against  her  breast. 

"  You  really  are  a  very  naughty  girl." 

"But  you'll  always  love  me,  whatever  I  do?" 

"Nobody  can  love  an  ignoramus." 

Monica's  tears  broke  out  again. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  now  ?  "  But  her  arms  tightened 
involuntarily. 

"  Because  you  won't  love  me  if  I  can't  learn  my  tables, 
and  my  head  does  ache  so  when  I  try.  And  there's  only  you 
and  me." 

This  was  a  plea  Agatha  could  not  withstand.  It  was  so 
true.  This  little  girl  was  all  she  had  to  make  a  home  of 
what  was  otherwise  only  an  estate.  She  held  her  more  closely, 
dried  her  tears,  said  crossly,  of  course,  she  would  always  love 
her,  whatever  she  did  or  left  undone. 

Already  Agatha  saw  the  spectre  of  loneliness,  for  all  her 
independence.  Whether  she  admitted  it  or  not,  she  knew 
she  had  made  a  mistake.  She  was  not  meanly  jealous  of 
Andrew,  with  his  wife  and  children,  or  the  Campdens  with 
theirs,  but  she  had  a  sudden  pang  sometimes  when  she  saw 
them.  She  never  thought  of  herself  as  a  wife,  but  often  as  a 
mother.  And  then  it  seemed  to  her  that  Monica  was  her 
own.  More  and  more  she  came  to  think  it  as  the  years  went 
on.  The  child  required  care,  was  exacting,  and  would  have 
no  tendance  but  her  sister's.  Agatha's  thoughts  and  ambi- 
tions, once  the  estate  was  in  order,  began  to  concentrate  on 
the  girl.  Of  course  she  spoiled  her,  taking  her  love  speeches 
very  seriously,  regretting  her  own  strange  inability  to  respond 
in  words  as  warm;  mothering  her,  not  too  wisely,  perhaps, 
but  with  all  her  heart  engaged. 

"  You  will  learn  to  do  everything  I  do,  and  to  keep  up 
all  the  traditions  of  Marley.  Marley  will  be  yours  one  day," 
she  told  Monica  often,  endeavouring  to  interest  her  in  the 
village,  now  become  a  model,  and  her  many  charities  at  Great 
Marley. 

Thus,  when  fortune  flung  another  opportunity  to  her,  she 


FULL  SWING  2Z 

seemed  too  deeply  committed  to  take  it.  She  said  she  had 
given  the  girl  her  promise;  Monica  was  to  be  the  heiress  of 
Marley.  It  was  of  Monica's  marriage  and  not  her  own  she 
was  thinking  when  Andrew  came  to  her  again. 

*'  You  said  '  no '  to  me  fourteen  years  ago,"  he  reminded 
her,  "  I  don't  suppose  you  like  me  any  better  now  that  I'm 
grizzled  and  have  three  children.'' 

"  It  is  no  question  of  liking."  She  had  foreseen  ever  since 
his  wife  died  that  he  would  reopen  the  question.  She  could 
not  deny,  even  to  herself,  that  she  was  glad  of  his  freedom, 
glad  she  need  not  think  of  him  with  another  woman.  She 
believed,  nevertheless,  that  it  was  only  his  friendship  she 
prized.    "  I  have  always  liked  you." 

"  Will  you  marry  me  now  ? "  he  asked  a  little  bluntly. 
"  Marriage  is  the  only  life  for  a  woman." 

He  knew  now  no  better  than  before  how  to  woo  her. 

"  I  have  been  very  content." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  known  no  better." 

**  Marriage  has  no  attraction  for  me,"  she  faltered,  per- 
haps disingenuously. 

"  That  is  your  ignorance.  You  don't  like  marriage  because 
you  don't  know  it.  Try  it  with  me.  Aren't  you  lonely  some- 
times?" 

*^I  have  always  Monica.  No,  I  don't  think  I'm  lonely." 
There  was  something  staid  and  sedate  about  her,  and  yet 
remote,  reserve  was  what  the  world  called  it,  but  it  was  more 
than  that. 

"  Never  distrustful  of  yourself  or  your  capacity  to  stand 
alone?" 

"  I  should  not  be  less  distrustful  of  myself  if  I  said  '  yes ' 
to-day,  after  having  said  *  no '  fourteen  years  ago.  And  I  am 
too  old  to  change  now,  too  fixed  in  my  habits." 

"  You'll  never  be  too  old.  You'll  die  young  enough  still 
to  believe  that  Marley  could  not  exist  without  a  Wanstead 
at  her  Court.  Men  and  women  were  never  made  to  live  alone ; 
haven't  you  found  that  out  yet?  There  is  everything  in 
favour  of  a  marriage  between  us,  and  nothing  against  it.  I 
don't  know  you  any  better  than  I  did,  for  I  always  knew  you 


24  '  FULL  SWING- 

through  and  through.  I  can't  woo  you  passionately,  we've 
passed  that  age." 

He  had,  perhaps ;  for  her  it  had  never  dawned.  Yet  she  was 
curiously  wounded  by  his  tone  and  strengthened  in  her  resolve. 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,"  she  said,  and  added  quickly, 
"You  say  yourself  you  have  outgrown  your  feeling  for  me." 

Before  he  had  time  to  grasp  her  meaning  or  realise  what 
lay  beneath  it  she  went  on  even  more  hurriedly : 

"  I  have  so  many  interests ;  I  know  every  cottage  on  the 
estate,  every  villager." 

*'  I  know  as  much  of  Marley  as  you  do.  We'll  come  down 
as  often  as  you  like.  London  is  not  in  my  blood  as  it  is  with 
some  people.  I  have  a  good  business,  but  I'll  give  it  up  if 
you  ask  me ;  I  can  afford  to  do  so.  On  Campden  Hill  I  have 
a  house  I  care  for  almost  as  much  as  you  love  Marley,  but 
that  shall  never  be  put  before  my  liking  for  you.  Be  honest 
with  me.    What  is  standing  between  us  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  the  truth."  She  flushed  in  telling  it, 
for  though  it  was  the  truth  it  was  not  the  whole  truth.  "  No 
one,  not  even  you,  could  be  to  me  what  Monica  is.  And  she 
depends  on  me.  I  will  not  put  anything  between  us.  I  mean 
her  to  have  Marley.    I  owe  it  to  her." 

"^  There  need  be  nothing  to  prevent  Monica  inheriting 
Marley,"  he  said  dryly, 

"  It  is  possible  that  I  might " 

And  then  she  broke  off,  her  cheeks  crimsoning  for  all  her 
thirty-seven  years.    Andrew's  eyes  were  whimsical, 

"  Of  course  you  might," 

"  But  it  was  not  only  that,"  she  went  on,  hoping  to  con- 
ceal her  embarrassment  with  rapid  talk.  "  In  a  way  I  have 
given  her  my  promise." 

^'  You  owe  her  nothing.  It  is  she  who  is  in  your  debt.  You 
are  the  most  generous  and  least  selfish  of  women,  but  you  are 
obstinate  and  not  very  wise  for  all  your  intelligence.  Per- 
haps that  is  why  I  care  for  you  so  much.  There  might  have 
been  an  epidemic  of  typhoid,  and  there  wasn't.  That's  the 
beginning  and  end  of  what  you  are  blaming  yourself  for. 
You  say  yourself  that  Monica's  mother  was  delicate.     You 


FULL  SWING  25 

were  not  responsible  for  that,  I  suppose?  You  are  sacrificing 
yourself  for  an  idea." 

"  I  am  not  sacrificing  myself." 

"  That  is  all  you  know.  You  don't  realise  what  sort  of  a 
husband  I  should  make  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  know/'  she  said  hastily,  surprised  to 
find  him  all  at  once  so  near  her. 

"Don't  you?  Don't  you?  Then  how  wrong  you  are." 
She  shrank  back  from  him. 

"It  is  too  late;  I  am  too  old;  I  have  outgrown  the  time 
for  marriage,"  were  the  phrases  with  which  she  defended 
herself.  Never  dreaming  what  the  future  held  for  her,  nor 
how  she  would  blunder  into  the  estate  she  had  said  so  often 
was  not  for  her. 

He  told  her  again  that  she  was  obstinate,  but  only  suc- 
ceeded in  confirming  her  in  it. 

"  Have  it  your  own  way  then,"  he  said  in  the  end,  almost 
irritably,  but  his  irritability  was  due  to  his  disappointment. 
"  I  can't  compel  you  to  marry  me,  although  I  know  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  both  of  us.  You  are  building  on  a  quick- 
sand if  you  are  reckoning  on  ending  your  days  here  with  that 
girl.  Isn't  she  to  marry  either?  You  are  so  young,  for  all 
your  years,  that  when  you  talk  of  the  future  it  seems  to  you 
so  far  off  that  it's  not  worth  reckoning  with.  You  and  your 
Monica!  Two  old  maids  together,  opening  bazaars;  the 
Misses  Wanstead,  of  Marley ! "  He  was  angry,  or  he  would 
not  have  spoken  like  that.  He  had  come  here  to-day  full  of 
hope,  and  was  going  away  without  any.  "  I  don't  know  where 
your  sense  has  got  to.  And  what  after — what  after?  Is 
Monica  to  have  a  husband,  and  is  he  to  live  here  with  you  ?  " 

"  If  she  marries  suitably.     This  is  her  home." 

"I've  no  words  for  your  foolishness."  He  was  too  exas- 
perated for  courtesy. 

Afterwards,  and  not  very  long  afterwards,  both  knew  that 
there  had  been  indeed  no  words  to  cliaracterise  her  folly. 

Andrew  was  sent  away  again  to  bring  up  his  babies  as  best 
he  might.  Agatha  persisted  that  Monica  was  all  the  children 
she  would  ever  have. 


26  FULL  SWING 

She  was  not  unconscious  of  what  she  was  giving  up,  but 
was  of  a  nature  to  whom  sacrifice  came  naturally.  The  more 
she  gave  up  for  Monica  the  more  she  cared  for  her.  It  was 
true,  as  Andrew  said,  that  the  future  and  Monica's  marriage 
seemed  very  far  off  and  hazy. 

At  seventeen  Monica  was  very  pretty  and  very  light,  and 
although  she  loved  her  elder  sister  as  well  as  she  was  capable 
of  loving  anybody  but  herself,  she  had  a  half-contemptuous 
pity  for  her  because  she  was  an  old  maid.  Every  man  who 
came  to  the  Court,  young  or  old,  and  in  whatever  station  of 
life,  was  Monica's  admirer.  Monica  demanded  admiration 
and  received  it.  She  had  a  way  of  looking  up  from  under  her 
lids,  and  of  smiling.  Agatha  was  uneasy  about  her,  although 
she  understood  her  so  little.  The  very  word  flirtatiousness 
was  unknovni  to  Agatha,  but  she  had  her  standard  of  good 
manners.  She  thought  there  was  something  a  little  vulgar 
or  imworthy  about  Monica's  pleasure  in  compliments  and 
her  way  of  receiving  and  talking  about  them.  Monica,  on 
the  other  hand,  deemed  her  elder  sister  a  little  prudish,  a 
little  priggish,  old-maidish,  and  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
her  opinion  to  herself.  Finally  Agatha  made  up  her  mind, 
but  not  without  mature  and  anxious  thought,  that  until  the 
day  came  for  the  girl  to  be  presented,  to  take  her  place  in 
Society,  by  which  time  she  might  have  acquired  decorousnese 
and  the  knowledge  of  what  was  expected  of  a  Miss  Wanstead, 
of  Marley,  she  must  no  longer  be  allowed  to  appear  at  dinner 
or  garden  party;  she  must  be  kept  in  the  background.  She 
was  a  little  too  old  and  a  little  too  young  to  be  with  grown-up 
people,  lacking  dignity,  almost  decorum. 

Monica  was  furious  at  being  told  she  was  to  be 
banished  to  the  nursery  or  schoolroom,  deeply  resentful  of 
the  slightest  remonstrance  as  to  her  behaviour.  Yet  Agatha, 
so  outspoken,  frank  and  almost  curt  with  the  rest  of  the 
world,  was  gentleness  itself  with  this  wayward  one.  But  for 
a  short  time,  and  until  Monica  learnt  to  evade  her  restrictions, 
relations  were  strained  between  them,  and  nothing  Agatha 
yielded  availed  to  put  them  right. 


CHAPTER  III 

In  her  eighteenth  year,  with  the  least  possible  excuse,  Monica 
the  cherished,  the  spoiled,  the  girl  for  whose  sake  Agatha  had 
refused  Andrew  for  the  second  time  and  turned  her  back  on 
personal  happiness,  ran  away  from  home,  from  the  Marley 
that  was  to  have  been  her  life  work  and  inheritance.  Basil 
Fellowes  was  the  companion  of  her  flight,  a  son  of  the  bank 
manager  at  Great  Marley,  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  recently 
gazetted  second  lieutenant  in  a  line  regiment,  Agatha  scarcely 
knew  his  name. 

The  girl  was  missed  at  lunch-time;  by  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  the  whole  household  was  in  alarm.  If  anyone 
guessed  the  truth  no  one  told  it,  and  Agatha  would  never 
have  believed  it.  All  night  they  sought  for  her;  they  searched 
the  Chase  and  dragged  the  river,  Agatha,  imagining  every 
disaster  but  the  real  one,  distracted  and  beyond  reason,  sent 
in  the  end  for  Andrew,  although  she  had  averred  so  often  that 
she  needed  no  man's  arm  on  which  to  lean. 

Andrew's  coming  synchronised  with  Monica's  belated  tele- 
gram. Of  course,  he  triumphed  at  seeing  his  predictions 
come  true.  And  Agatha  was  so  wounded,  so  hurt  in  all  her 
pride  as  well  as  in  her  hidden  tenderness,  that  his  triumph, 
his  smiles,  and  his  "  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  drove  her  mad 
with  pain.  She  must  have  been  mad  in  the  months  that  fol- 
lowed; nothing  else  can  account  for  her  actions.  Andrew 
saw  Monica's  letter,  smiling  at  that  too.  He  still  wanted 
Agatha,  and  Monica's  flight  seemed  to  deliver  her  into  his 
hands. 

"Darling  Sister, 

"  Don't  be  angrier  with  me  than  you  can  help.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you,  but  I  knew  you  wouldn't  understand.  Basil  and 
I  are  simply  mad  about  each  other.     And  you've  never  had 

27 


28  FULL  SWING 

a  love  affair  at  all,  nor  been  mad  about  anybody.  Basil  is 
sure  his  father  will  make  him  an  allowance  if  you'll  do  the 
same  and  see  him  for  us.  We  used  to  meet  in  the  Chase.  I've 
only  kno^vn  him  six  weeks  altogether.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
ever  so  many  times,  but  you  think  such  a  lot  of  birth  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  I  knew  you  wouldn't  hear  of  my  getting  married 
until  I  was  eighteen,  and  neither  Basil  nor  I  felt  we  could 
wait.  At  first  we  thought  we'd  just  get  married  and  come 
back  home,  and  tell  no  one  until  his  two  years  in  India  were 
over.  He's  got  to  go  there  next  month.  But  after  we  were 
married  and  had  lunch — I  want  to  tell  you  everything,  but,  of 
course,  you've  never  been  married  and  I  don't  suppose  I  could 
make  you  understand — we  simply  couldn't  be  parted.  I  know 
you'll  think  we  might  have  waited.  .  .  /' 

There  were  incoherent  pages  of  excuses,  but  no  word  to 
show  she  knew  what  she  had  done. 

Agatha  did  not  reason  about  it  at  all,  she  was  too  greatly 
hurt.  Andrew's  tender  triumph — he  meant  to  be  tender  with 
her — ^was  like  a  blow  on  the  head  after  concussion  of  the 
brain,  unbearable. 

"You  made  a  mistake,  that  was  all,"  said  Andrew  con- 
solingly. "  You  mustn't  take  it  too  much  to  heart ;  the  girl 
was  never  worthy  of  all  you  lavished  on  her."  He  wanted  to 
comfort  her,  and  was  ready  to  show  her  how  to  fill  her  life 
afresh. 

Friends  came  in  sympathy  or  surprise,  in  condolence  or 
condemnation ;  it  was  impossible  to  hush  the  matter  up.  One 
said  the  girl  had  had  too  much  freedom ;  another  said  she  had 
had  too  little.  Agatha  was  accused  of  having  spoiled  her, 
and  then  told  she  had  been  too  austere.  Everybody  was  sorry 
for  her,  but  some  of  her  friends  blamed  her  and  said  or 
implied  that  the  girl  had  been  brought  up  badly. 

The  time  came  when  Agatha  found  herself  unable  any 
longer  to  bear  her  neighbours'  criticism  or  comment,  Andrew's 
gentleness  and  triumph,  or  her  own  thoughts  in  solitary  hours. 
Later  on  she  might  be  able  to  face  it,  but  not  now. 

She  saw  all  her  mistakes  so  much  more  clearly  than  they 


FULL  SWING  29 

did.  But  it  was  not  her  conscience  that  suffered,  it  was  her 
heart.  She  had  thought  that  Monica  loved  her,  could  not  do 
without  her.  But  in  the  watches  of  the  night  it  seemed  that 
no  one  loved  or  needed  her.  And  she  was  nearing  forty,  incon- 
ceivably lonely,  too  old  to  reconstruct  her  life.  Who  now  was 
to  inlierit  Marley?  Not  the  bank  manager's  grandchildren. 
She  hardly  knew  her  own  next  of  kin,  but  must  make  search. 

Andrew,  for  her  own  good  and  because  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  her  look  so  unhappy  and  forlorn,  chaffed  her  about  the 
girl's  flight,  took  it  for  granted  that  now  she  would  listen  to 
reason — what  he  called  reason.  Not  even  Andrew  realised 
her  sensitiveness,  nor  exactly  how  she  was  hurt.  Often  the 
girl  had  slept  by  her  side;  always  her  heart  had  been  full  of 
her.  She  had  been  bent  on  her  welfare,  planning  for  her. 
Not  a  day  or  a  night  could  she  remember  for  all  the  years 
since  her  father  died  that  she  had  not  planned  for  Monica  or 
Marley.  Never  a  selfish  thought  had  come  to  her.  People 
called  her  proud,  standoffish.  Perhaps  that  is  how  Monica 
regarded  her.  Love  words  had  come  to  her  with  difficulty; 
but  she  had  held  this  little  sister  in  her  arms  and  against  her 
breast,  denying  her  nothing.  It  was  a  psychological  time  with 
Agatha,  and  she  saw  youth  behind  her  and  loneliness  in 
front — loneliness,  or  Andrew  telling  her  of  her  many  mistakes. 

There  were  hours  when  she  had  an  immense  antagonism 
toward  Andrew,  when  he  seemed  an  enemy  to  her,  glad  of  her 
pain.  She  had  the  sense  to  see  she  must  get  away  from  him, 
from  all  her  surroundings,  until  she  was  in  better  humour. 

Eound  and  ridiculous  in  figure,  ill-dressed  always,  and 
intermittently  philanthropic,  Alice  Metherby  had  nevertheless 
the  human  touch.  She  was  in  London  when  she  heard  what 
had  happened  at  Marley  Court. 

"  Come  to  us  for  a  few  weeks,"  she  wrote  to  Agatha ;  "  it 
will  be  a  complete  change  for  you;  the  Colonel  and  I  will 
be  so  pleased  to  have  you.  You've  never  been  in  London 
during  the  season,  and  there  will  be  nothing  to  remind  you 
of  anything  you  want  to  forget.  You  can  be  as  quiet  as  you 
like,  or  as  gay.  The  great  thing  is  that  everything  will  be 
different." 


30  FULL  SWING 

The  great  thing  wa5  that  everything  would  be  different. 
How  different  she  never  dreamed.  She  felt  she  must  get 
away  from  Marley,  from  Andrew's  weekly  visits  and  proprie- 
torial air,  from  the  house  that  echoed  no  longer  to  the  child's 
pattering  feet,  to  the  girl's  chatter  or  wayward  affection,  away 
from  the  woods  where  she  must  walk  alone,  and  from  all  the 
associations. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  when  she  was  in  the  train,  and 
thought  that  now  the  pressure  on  her  head  and  heart  would 
lighten,  her  brain  would  grow  clear  again.  She  would  make 
new  plans. 

Andrew  was  satisfied  that  Agatha  should  be  in  London 
for  a  time.  He  thought  it  best  for  her  to  have  a  change  of 
scene.  The  distance  between  Eaton  Square  and  Campden 
Hill  was  not  unsurpassable.  Colonel  Metherby  was  the  best 
of  good  fellows,  the  youngest  colonel  in  the  British  army,  with 
Afghan  medals  and  reputation.  She  would  see  people,  get 
used  to  being  without  the  girl,  come  to  a  different  way  of 
thinking  about  things.  Andrew  was  ever  an  optimist;  he 
saw  Agatha  and  himself  together,  and  the  wedding  bells  ring- 
ing. It  was  time  his  children  had  someone  to  look  after  them ; 
Agatha  would  soon  find  her  life  full  again.  So  he  argued, 
and,  although  the  distance  from  Campden  Hill  to  Eaton 
Square  proved  longer  than  he  expected,  he  lived  in  his  fool's 
paradise  until  half  the  season  had  gone  by. 

Campden  Hill  and  Eaton  Square  are  only  twenty 
minutes  apart  as  the  cab  flies,  but  there  was  a  whole  quarter 
of  social  circumstance  between  them.  The  Metherbys  lived 
in  one  set,  Andrew  McKay  in  another.  They  could  have 
managed  to  meet,  of  course,  but  Agatha  had  no  inclination 
to  meet  Andrew. 

In  London  she  got  a  little  outside  her  pain,  the  pain  of 
failure  and  loneliness;  she  went  to  receptions  and  dinner- 
parties and  theatres,  made  new  acquaintances  and  renewed 
old  ones,  talked  more  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  and  with 
authority,  perhaps  gave  a  false  impression  of  importance, 
making  somewhat  of  a  figure.  In  those  days  it  was  a  little 
uncommon  that  a  woman  should  talk  freely  and  well  of  agri- 


FULL  SWING  31 

cultural  conditions  and  farming,  the  labourer  and  his  housing. 
She  talked  from  the  standpoint  of  experience.  The  tale  of 
her  wealth  grew,  and  the  number  of  her  acres.  Although  she 
was  in  her  fortieth  year  she  looked  younger ;  her  hair  was  thick 
and  abundant,  her  eyes  were  unwrinkled,  her  complexion  was 
clear.  Her  fine  hands  and  arched  instep  were  hereditary,  and 
she  carried  herself  as  a  Miss  Wanstead  of  Marley  should. 

It  was  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Dacre  who  first  conceived  the  idea, 
Lord  Grindelay's  sister.  Lord  Grindelay  was  the  talk  of 
London  that  season,  and  his  sister  was  half  proud  and  half 
ashamed  of  him,  knowing  more  than  the  world  knew. 

In  London,  early  in  the  July  of  that  year,  there  was 
political  talk  that  no  woman  in  the  Metherby  world  could 
hope  to  escape.  There  were  fierce  party  cries  and  disruption, 
partisajiship  and  appeal  to  national  passions  and  posses- 
sions. It  was  the  year  when  Parnell  was  fighting  with  his 
life's  blood  for  a  country  that  threw  him'  aside  like  a  dead 
dog  on  the  first  trivial  excuse.  It  was  a  year  of  aggressions  by 
the  Land  Leaguers,  of  maiming  of  cattle  and  murder  of  land 
agents. 

The  Lockhara  incident  will  not  have  been  forgotten, 
although  the  feeling  it  aroused  is  perhaps  difficult  to  recall. 
Ulster  then,  as  now,  was  steady  and  staunch.  There  was  a 
meeting  of  Land  Leaguers  advertised  for  a  certain  date, 
and  a  manifesto  headed  "  God  Save  the  Queen  "  was  issued 
by  Lord  Grindelay,  of  Languedoc,  asking  Orangemen  and 
Loyalists  to  prevent  it  taking  place.  The  two  processions 
started,  came  into  conflict  at  Lockhara,  and  there  was  some 
loss  of  life.  There  was  a  great  outcry  in  London  and  in 
Dublin  as  to  who  was  responsible,  and  to  satisfy  a  section  of 
the  voters  at  Westminster  it  was  Lord  Grindelay  who  was 
finally  indicted.  The  trial  was  several  times  postponed,  and 
Lord  Grindelay  became  the  hero  of  the  hour.  He  may  have 
been  a  patriot  and  a  hero,  but  that  he  was  also  a  scamp  who 
loved  a  row  was  well  known  to  his  sister  and  her  intimates. 
Also  that  he  could  hardly  afford  to  defend  himself. 

Agatha  Wanstead  was  not  aggressively  religious,  but  she 
went  regularly  to  her  parish  church,  and  hated  Eoman  Cath- 


32  FULL  SWING 

olicism  traditionally  and  instinctively.  Loyalty  to  the  Crown 
was  part  of  the  family  history  of  the  Wansteads,  and  since 
the  Eestoration  they  had  never  swerved  from  their  Protes- 
tantism. This  excuses,  if  it  does  not  explain,  Agatha's  interest 
in  the  man  who  was  ready  to  face  imprisonment  or  impeach- 
ment in  defence  of  either. 

It  does  not  explain  all  her  blunder,  although  perhaps  the 
beginning  of  it. 

For  the  rest,  there  was  the  reasonless  reaction  from 
Andrew,  who  had  predicted  her  betrayal  and  now  showed  his 
readiness  to  take  advantage  of  it. 

"I  told  you  so.  Foolish  creature,  dear  foolish  creature, 
I  have  told  you  so  often  you  needed  someone  to  take  care  of 
you.  For  the  future  I  will  do  it.  You  have  no  excuse  now 
for  not  placing  yourself  in  my  hands.  I  don't  care  for  you 
as  I  did  when  you  were  a  girl,  but  I  will  look  after  you.  .  .  ." 

These  were  the  things  Agatha  heard  Andrew  say,  resent- 
ing them  in  the  watches  of  the  night,  always. 

Lord  Grindelay  was  then  fifty,  his  hair  still  curly  and  his 
eyes  blue.  There  was  no  doubt  he  was  a  favourite  at  Court, 
and  that  his  misdemeanour  made  no  difference  as  to  his  recep- 
tion at  Marlborough  House.  Dinah  Dacre  exploited  liis  popu- 
larity for  all  and  more  than  it  was  worth.  He  went  every- 
where, and,  of  course,  to  the  Metherbys.  It  was  in  the 
brougham,  after  a  dinner-party  there,  that  the  great  idea 
struck  Dinah.    She  hit  Mm  on  the  back  and  said : 

"  That  woman  with  the  short  hair,  now,  Agatha,  they 
called  her,  she  that  talked  about  loyalty;  she's  as  rich  as 
Croesus,  they  tell  me.  Why  don't  you  go  in  for  her  ?  "  She 
doubled  herself  up  with  laughter  at  the  idea.  "  She  thinks 
you  are  a  hero,  that  you  marched  those  poor  devils  to  Loekhara 
for  the  Queen  and  country.  She  told  me  any  one  of  her  ovm 
people  would  have  done  the  same." 

"  You  think  she  took  a  fancy  to  me  ?  Did  she  like  me 
singing  ?  " 

Pat  could  sing  Irish  ballads,  besides  other  songs,  but  he 
sang  only  Irish  ballads  at  the  Metherby  dinner-party. 

"  Of  course  she  did,  for  all  that  she's  an  old  maid ;  a  nice 


FULL  SWING  33 

creature,  too.  They'll  be  making  you  bankrupt,  you  know, 
and  wliat  will  become  of  you  then  ?  " 

"  And  is  it  love-making  I'm  to  be  at  with  an  old  maid  ?  " 

Lord  Grindelay  was  apt  with  his  Irish  phraseology,  and 
he  said  one  or  two  things  about  old  maids,  in  the  brogue,  that 
made  Dinah  laugh.  He  had  buried  his  first  wife  long  enough 
to  have  forgotten  how  unfit  he  was  for  matrimonial  ties. 

Dinah  Dacre's  sense  of  humour  started  the  scheme,  Pat's 
vanity  made  it  feasible,  the  utter  incongruity  of  such  a  match 
presently  made  them  all  keen  for  the  fun  of  it.  His  family 
and  his  Irish  friends  applauded  and  urged  him  on.  Most  of 
them  knew  the  inconvenience  of  perpetual  bankruptcy.  Even 
Royalty  was  understood  to  express  an  amused  approval. 

Pat  rushed  at  his  love-making,  carrying  Agatha  off  her 
feet.  At  first  his  wooing  was  half  in  fun,  just  to  show  what 
he  could  do  and  to  amuse  Dinah.  He  was  told  that  the  rent 
roll  of  Marley  was  large  enough  to  flood  the  depleted 
exchequer  of  Languedoc. 

"  It's  a  great  wife  she'll  make  me,"  lie  said,  with  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek.  "  She'll  believe  every  word  I  say."  And 
he  told  of  stories  she  had  swallowed  whole. 

It  was  true  that  Agatha  believed  everything  he  said.  With 
all  her  disappointment,  she  was  ever  conscious  of  her  posi- 
tion, and  could  not  conceive  that  anyone  should  make  fun  of 
her.  She  was  a  new  and  strange  specimen  of  humanity  to  the 
wild  Irish  peer,  who  had  not  known  women  with  a  rare  sense 
of  duty  and  none  of  humour. 

For  the  moment  Agatha's  reasoning  powers  were  at  their 
lowest  ebb.  Pain  had  always  that  effect  on  her  reasoning 
powers,  as  the  strange  sequel  to  her  story  proved.  Now  she 
was  all  unused  to  it.  She  wanted  to  get  away  from  herself 
and  all  her  associations,  to  reconstruct  her  life.  There  could 
not  be  a  greater  change  than  this  gay  Irishman,  who  had 
made  every  sacrifice  for  his  country  and  bore  his  position, 
lightly.  His  lightness  and  gaiety  were  so  strange  to  her ;  they 
were  not  among  the  characteristics  of  her  Buckinghamshire 
neighbours.  Yet  her  engagement  came  upon  her  as  a  sur- 
prise; he  kissed  her  without  asking  her  leave,  and  said  she 
3 


34  FULL  SWING 

was  "  the  girl  for  him "  before  she  had  time  to  assert  her 
dignity. 

"  Begod !  she  didn't  know  whether  she  was  standing  on 
her  head  or  her  heels,"  Pat  told  his  sister.  "  A  few  kisses 
carried  her  away.  She  came  fresh  to  it,  too,  an'  you'd  think 
she  was  seventeen  from  her  blushing.  I'll  be  tied  up  before 
I  know  where  I  am;  an'  what'll  I  do  with  her,  God  knows, 
for  she  thinks  I'm  a  saint  an'  a  hero,  an'  I'll  have  to  be  on  me 
best  behaviour  all  the  time." 

The  Metherbys  were  hypnotised  by  Pat's  honhomie. 
Young  Lady  Dorset  had  a  great  weakness  for  her  uncle,  and 
told  Agatha  what  a  fine  shot  he  was,  and  what  a  great  rider, 
and  how  kind  he  had  been  to  her  and  her  brother  when  they 
were  children.  Agatha's  generosity,  no  less  than  her  impul- 
siveness, helped  to  her  undoing.  The  inquest  on  the  Lockhara 
victims  was  adjourned  and  adjourned  again.  Lord  Grindelay's 
trial  was  yet  to  come. 

"  I'll  not  have  you  make  any  promise  until  they've  found 
whether  I'm  a  murderer  or  not.  Maybe  I  was  responsible  for 
those  poor  fellows'  deaths,  and  not  the  murdering  Land 
Leaguers  at  all." 

Agatha  was  not  the  woman  to  wait  until  he  was  in  safety. 

On  July  27,  1878,  without  settlements  or  public  announce- 
ment, at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Metherbys  and  a  whole  crowd  of  Irish  relatives  of  the  bride- 
groom, the  amazing  marriage  took  place.  Andrew  knew 
nothing  about  it  until  it  was  all  over,  and  he  saw  it  chronicled 
in  the  Morning  Post. 

"  On  the  27th  inst.,  at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  by 
the  Eight  Eev.  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  assisted  by  the 
Eev.  Septimus  Black,  Patrick  Canning  Warner  Foulds,  Lord 
Grindelay,  of  Languedoc  Castle,  co.  Fermanagh,  Ireland,  to 
Agatha,  elder  daughter  of  the  late  Archibald  Wanstead,  of 
Marley  Court,  Bucks." 

He  could  not  believe  it  at  first,  although  it  stared  at  him 
in  solid  print.  Agatha  married — Agatha!  And  not  to  him! 
He  knew  at  once  what  a  bad  mistake  she  had  made,  and  how 


FULL  SWING  35 

chajacteristic.  He  blamed  himself  then  and  often  for  his 
patience  with  her.  He  went  about  for  many  days  with  a 
heavy  heart.  She  was  so  sure  of  her  strength,  yet  no  woman 
of  his  acquaintance  was  more  in  need  of  a  man  to  guide  her; 
and  that  he  should  have  been  the  man  he  had  no  doubt. 
When,  for  Agatha's  sake,  he  began  to  collate  facts  about  Lord 
Grindelay  and  to  leam  his  reputation,  his  heart  grew  heavier 
still.    He  knew  she  had  blundered  again,  badly,  irretrievably. 

At  her  own  liome  in  Marley,  and  in  Buckinghamshire 
generally,  when  they  read  the  announcement,  they  thought 
she  had  done  very  well  for  herself,  very  well  indeed. 

"  She  must  be  forty  if  she's  a  day,  and  no  beauty  at  any 
time.  And  she  has  married  a  peer !  "  In  Buckinghamshire 
in  1878  they  still  thought  something  of  a  peer,  and  the  fact 
that  Agatha  would  go  in  to  dinner  before  Lady  Campden. 

As  for  Agatha  herself,  during  those  few  days  before  her 
hurried  wedding,  and  even  on  her  wedding  day,  she  thought 
of  nothing  but  that  she  need  not  go  back  yet  to  the  grey, 
silent  house,  to  find  herself  without  the  footfall  beside  her 
own,  or  the  girlish  laughter  in  her  ears,  to  be  haunted  by  thin 
arms  about  her  and  light  kisses  on  her  cheek.  She  need  not 
return  so  soon  to  the  sympathy  of  the  neighbours  and  the 
talk  of  the  villagers.  She  was  starting  on  a  new  life  with  a 
man  who  adored  her;  a  good  man,  too,  who  had  served  his 
country  and  stood  even  now  in  peril  for  the  cause.  She  could 
help  him  in  his  campaign,  share  his  danger,  find  a  whole  new 
set  of  interests.  She  even  thought  vaguely  that  she  might 
give  up  Marley  and  make  Ireland  her  home.  She  would  do 
anything  to  save  herself  remembering  how  Monica  had 
deceived  and  run  away  from  her  and  Andrew  McKay  been 
justified  in  his  prognostications. 


CHAPTER  ly 

The  Ireland  in  which  Agatha  pictured  herself  making  a  new 
home  was  the  Ireland  of  the  new  Celtic  movement,  of  Clarence 
Mangan,  and  Aubrey  de  Vere,  of  William  Allingham,  and 
Sir  Samuel  Ferguson.  The  Ireland  in  which  she  found 
herself  was  that  of  Lever's  novels.  Languedoc  was  "  Castle 
Eackrent,"  but  without  any  quality  of  romance.  She  might 
have  got  over  that  if  her  husband,  if  this  good  man  to  whom 
she  had  tied  herself,  this  impetuous  lover  to  whose  adoration 
she  had  succumbed,  had  remained  on  the  good  behaviour  he 
had  promised  his  sister,  until  at  least  she  had  acclimatised 
herself. 

As  it  was,  within  a  week,  the  dirt  and  the  debt  and  the 
disorder  seemed  no  less  part  of  him  than  of  his  castle.  To 
say  he  shocked  her  delicacy  every  hour  she  passed  with  him 
in  the  familiarity  of  married  life  is  to  gloze  over  the  truth. 
She  knew,  as  soon  as  she  knew  anything  at  all,  into  what  a 
morass  she  had  stepped.  "  Morass  "  was  the  only  description 
she  could  apply  to  Lord  Grindelay's  mind.  She  conceived  an 
absolute  horror  of  liim  before,  according  to  his  own  way  of 
thinking,  he  had  done  anything  to  deserve  it.  The  stories 
he  told  her — and  telling  coarse  stories  was  his  idea  of  honey- 
moon entertainment — filled  her  with  disgust.  He  jested  with 
his  servants,  and  she  thought  that  he  drank  with  them.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  on  terms  of  boon  companionship  with  the  boorish 
neighbours  who  called  upon  her,  who  drove  over  in  side-cars 
with  their  incredible  womenkind. 

The  castle  was  three  parts  in  ruin,  and  the  very  decencies 
of  life  were  lacking  in  its  fumishment.  She  made  an  honest 
effort  to  put  things  on  a  better  footing.  She  did  not  give  in 
all  at  once,  nor  for  many  a  weary  disgusted  day.  But  when 
she  would  have  introduced  reforms  she  was  met  by  an  opposi- 
tion of  idleness  and  inertia,  humour  and  stupidity  that  proved 
completely  baffling. 


FULL  SWING  37 

"  An'  where'll  the  hot  water  be  comin'  from  ? "  Biddy 
asked  her  with  apparent  curiosity.  Lord  Grindelay  had  told 
her  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  bring  an  English  maid  with  her, 
and  that  Biddy  or  any  of  the  servants  would  be  glad  to  wait 
upon  her.  Biddy's  own  position  in  the  house  was  never 
explained.  There  seemed  to  be  dozens  of  servants,  no  one  of 
them  with  defined  duties.  A  greater  change  from  her  own 
ordered  English  household  it  was  impossible  to  conceive. 

"  Is  it  a  bath  yer  wantin'  ?  Sorra  fut,  but  it's  in  England 
ye  ought  to  have  stayed.  I'll  get  ye  a  can  of  water,  maybe, 
but  not  at  the  early  hour  ye  name.  What!  an'  will  ye  be 
after  wasliin'  yesilf  all  over,  an'  you  wid  never  a  spot  on  ye 
that  anyone  can  see  ?  " 

"Is  it  yer  dress  I'm  to  fasten  behint,  an'  me  wid  me 
hands  shakin'  from  carryin'  up  that  great  can  ?  " 

Larry,  who  was  Pat's  body  serv^ant,  and  Biddy,  who  was 
possibly  the  housekeeper,  had  a  way  of  wondering  open- 
mouthed  at  her  requirements — admiring  and  wondering. 

"  It's  the  gas  ye  have  at  home,  an'  the  gutterin'  candles'll 
be  lavin'  yez  in  the  dark.  I'm  tellin'  ye  we're  lucky  to  git 
them  candles,  forbye  they're  the  same  Father  Ralph  uses." 

"  Clanin'  the  room  ivry  day  are  ye  manin',  an'  wid  visitors 
comin'  an'  all  ?  " 

"  It's  the  cookin'  ye're  not  satisfied  wid,  an'  didn't  Norah 
kill  the  best  fowls  in  the  run  with  her  own  hands,  barrin' 
one  that  was  a  cock,  an'  that  not  an  hour  since  ?  '  Anythin' 
to  plaze  ye,'  she  said.  Tough  was  it  they  were  ?  Maybe  ye're 
right,  but  she's  a  grand  cook  for  all  that,  an'  her  own  mother's 
cousin  an  O'Donoghue." 

Soon  she  found  herself  confronted  by  an  ever-growing, 
although  subtle  and  unexpressed,  opposition.  Her  manner 
towards  Lord  Grindelay,  her  obvious  distaste  of  his  coarse 
joviality,  aroused  their  antagonism.  Agatha  could  not  dis- 
guise her  feelings,  there  was  not  an  hour  of  the  day  or  a 
circumstance  of  her  present  life  in  which  they  were  not  out- 
raged. 

"  It's  a  squeamish  old  maid  ye  are,"  her  husband  said  to 
her  within  a  week  of  their  marriage.     He  still  treated  her 


38  FULL  SWING 

with  good-humour,  and  laughed  at  her  flushed  remonstrances. 
But  the  time  came  when  she  irritated  him.  He  was  not  used 
to  criticism,  and  if  she  resented  his  jesting  with  the  servants 
or  drinking  more  whisky  than  was  good  for  him,  he  would 
retort :  "  Sure  a  man's  master  in  his  own  house  ?  As  for 
Biddy,  Biddy  was  there  before  you  were,  wasn't  she?  And 
what  if  I  did  chuck  a  colleen  under  the  chin  or  pass  her  a  kiss  ? 
Do  you  think  you're  the  soft  companion  for  a  man,  that  he'd 
be  looking  the  other  way  when  a  pretty  wench  came  in 
sight?" 

Things  grew  worse  between  them  very  quickly.  Agatha 
was  horrified  to  hear  that  there  had  never  been  any  real  fear 
of  Lord  Grindelay's  trial  for  manslaughter,  and  that  he  had 
only  used  it  as  a  lever  to  hurry  on  the  marriage.  He  thought 
nothing  of  the  deception  he  had  practised  upon  her,  nothing 
of  telling  lies,  or  drinking  too  much  whisky,  or  philandering 
with  the  maids.  He  subjected  her  to  every  possible  indignity. 
So  she  said  when  the  inevitable  end  came.  He  never  saw 
that  she  had  anything  against  him  but  her  own.  want  of 
adaptability.  "  Didn't  he  live  the  life  of  eyerj  Irish  gentle- 
man of  his  own  age  and  standing  ?  "  he  asked.  If  he  did, 
Agatha  thought  it  was  a  dreadful  thing  for  Ireland,  and 
accounted  for  the  lack  of  prosperity.  She  felt  the  humiliation 
of  the  conditions  under  which  she  was  placed,  was  too  intel- 
ligent, when  once  her  reasoning  powers  returned,  not  to 
realise  them,  and  too  intolerant  to  submit.  Her  high  recti- 
tude and  aloofness  helped  to  her  ever-growing  unpopularity. 
She  imported  English  servants,  and  neither  they  nor  she  could 
obtain  service  in  Languedoc,  More  than  once  she  threatened 
to  leave.  But  for  a  few  months  her  strong  sense  of  duty 
kept  her  from  carrying  out  her  threat. 

When,  however,  she  found  she  was  about  to  become  a 
mother  she  knew  she  could  not  face  what  was  before  her  in 
such  surroundings.  To  separate  herself  for  a  time  at  least 
from  Lord  Grindelay  became  imperative.  He  let  her  go 
without  any  opposition.  None  of  her  ways  or  talk  suited 
him,  and  he  told  his  friends  that  he  was  glad  'Ho  see  the 
back  of  her."    The  marriage  was  a  complete  failure.    He  com- 


FULL  SWING  39 

plained  that  Dinah  had  landed  him  with  a  wife  who  would 
not  even  sign  cheques  without  exacting  absurd  promises. 
Promises,  however,  that  were  broken  as  easily  as  made. 
Before  the  end  came  she  would  not  sign  cheques  for  him  at 
all.  He  called  her  mean,  although  never  had  there  been  a 
woman  more  generous.  But  she  was  essentially  just.  The 
tradesmen  for  whom  she  had  written  cheques,  poor  men  who 
ought  not  to  have  been  left  without  their  due,  came  again 
lamenting  that  nothing  had  been  given  to  them.  She  never 
arrived  at  the  smallest  comprehension  of  Lord  Grin  delay's 
ways  or  his  carelessness  in  money  matters.  To  her  he  was 
simply  a  dishonest  person. 

At  Marley,  back  again  into  the  atmosphere  of  respect, 
esteem,  ordered  ways  and  appreciation,  back  to  her  position 
as  Lady  Paramount  and  Lady  Bountiful,  she  found  no  haunt- 
ing ghost  of  Monica  in  wait  for  her,  but  only  her  renewed 
sense  of  personal  dignity  and  high  position.  Very  quickly 
she  recovered  her  equipoise.  The  future  must  be  faced,  of 
course.  She  knew  already  that  she  could  never  return  to 
Ireland  or  to  Lord  Grindelay,  although  it  was  not  necessary 
all  the  world  should  be  informed  of  it. 

Lady  Grindelay  kept  her  own  counsel  perhaps  too  well, 
and  it  was  Dr.  Eeid  who,  later  on,  took  the  responsibility  of 
telegraphing  for  her  husband.  She  was  not  young ;  he  antici- 
pated trouble,  and  thought  her  husband  should  be  there. 
Dr.  Eeid  practised  in  Great  Marley,  where  it  was  the  custom 
for  husbands  to  be  within  call  on  such  occasions,  particularly 
with  a  first  baby.  This  was  to  be  more  than  a  baby ;  it  was  to 
be  an  heir. 

Lord  Grindelay  came  at  the  call.  The  end  of  the  hunt- 
ing season  left  him  with  time  on  his  hands,  and  his  irritation 
against  his  wife  subsided.  He  was  the  easiest  of  men  to  live 
with  if  one  did  not  question  his  ways.  He  said  so  himself, 
therefore  it  must  have  been  true. 

In  his  cups,  the  night  liis  son  was  bom,  he  hiccoughed  it 
all  out  to  Dr.  Eeid.  He  said  "  she  was  so  damned  particular, 
nagging  me,  wanting  me  to  put  things  in  order  that  never 
would  be  in  order,  never  had  been." 


40  FULL  SWING 

"  She  took  against  me,  doctor ;  no  reason  or  rhyme  in  it. 
Wasn't  I  attentive  to  my  duty  to  her?  "  One  can  leave  a  little 
hiatus  there  in  his  talk.  "  Wouldn't  I  have  kept  her  amused 
if  there  had  been  any  spirit  in  her?  I'm  good  company, 
doctor;  there's  not  a  soul  but  has  always  said  so — you  ask 
my  sister  Dinah.  I'm  good  company,  but  not  a  thing  could 
I  say  or  do  to  please  her.  Me  singing,  now,  wasn't  it  good 
enough  for  Marlborough  House  and  the  Prince?  Stiff  as 
buckram  she  is,  more  English  than  you'll  find  in  London." 

He  trolled  out  a  stave  about  a  noble  lord  who  had  taken 
advantage  of  a  serving  wench: 

'  He  sold  her  to  his  servant 
An'  he  gave  them  twenty  pound.  .  .  .' 

"  The  fuss  she  made  about  that  song,  and  the  moral  of 
it — ^the  moral  of  it !  When  it  comes  to  talkin'  of  the  moral 
of  a  good  song !  " 

He  had  his  grievances,  but  he  was  quite  good-humoured 
over  them,  prepared  to  forgive  her.  He  thought  she  would 
come  to  a  better  knowledge  of  his  world  in  time.  "  It's  a 
difficult  thing,  perhaps,  for  an  old  maid,"  he  said  in  exculpa- 
tion of  her. 

Dr.  Eeid  already  realised  he  had  perhaps  made  a  mistake 
in  sending  for  Agatha's  husband.  "When  he  came  to  tell  him 
that  he  was  the  father  of  a  son  and  heir,  he  found  him  asleep 
on  the  sofa,  the  whisky  bottle  empty. 

Agatha's  weary  time  of  convalescence  was  diversified  by 
stories  of  her  husband's  conduct.  Any  chance  of  reconcilia- 
tion between  them  was  lost  by  his  behaviour.  The  neighbour- 
hood, hearing  Lord  Grindelay  was  at  Marley  Court,  and  in 
accordance  with  precedent  at  such  a  time,  called  upon  him  and 
invited  him  to  dinner.  He  got  drunk  in  their  houses,  told 
his  coarse  stories,  sang  his  coarse  songs,  was  soon  ostracised. 
He  might  have  been  accepted  among  sporting  men  or  in  a 
sporting  neighbourhood,  although  he  was  so  completely  out 
of  date.  But  among  Agatha's  friends  he  had  no  place  at  all. 
He  was  horribly  bored,  too,  and  took  his  revenge  by  shocking 
them,  exaggerating  his  brogue  and  his  stories.  When  he 
visited  Agatha  in  her  bedroom  he  upset  the  nurse  and  sent 


FULL  SWING  41 

up  the  temperature  of  her  patient  by  recapitulating  these 
exploits.  It  was  difficult  to  keep  him  out  of  the  sick-room, 
because,  strangely  enough,  and  to  add  to  his  many  incon- 
sistencies, he  displayed  great  interest  in  his  son.  It  was  a 
red-faced  baby  with  black  hair,  who  screamed  a  great  deal. 
'Agatha  was  unable  to  nurse  it,  and  it  is  possible  it  did  not 
like  the  artificial  food  provided.  On  the  rare  occasions  when 
it  opened  its  eyes,  they  were  seen,  to  be  blue,  like  Lord  Grinde- 
lay's  own. 

"It's  the  livin'  image  of  me,"  he  said,  almost  awed. 
Agatha  thought  he  spoke  the  truth.  The  child  made  no  appeal 
to  her.  If  it  were  possible  for  so  dutiful  a  woman  to  be  want- 
ing in  right  feeling,  one  would  have  to  admit  that  she  dis- 
liked the  child.  She  said  once  that  ''  he  screamed  in  Irish." 
But  Lord  Grindelay  would  dandle  him  on  his  knee,  talking 
baby  talk  as  to  the  manner  born. 

"We'll  teach  you  to  laugh,  won't  we,  old  man?  Is  it 
dribblin'  you  are,  bad  cess  to  you,  though  why  you  shouldn't 
dribble  if  you  want  to  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  He's  wonder- 
fully strong,  isn't  he,  nurse?  Listen  to  the  voice  of  him! 
There's  lungs  for  you.  He'll  sing  like  his  father,  won't  ye 
now,  and  have  all  the  maids  running  after  you  ?  " 

He  could  not  help  being  reminiscent.  Agatha  dreaded 
him  in  her  room,  dreaded  to  hear  him  talk  to  the  baby  or  the 
nurse,  was  always  afraid  of  what  he  would  say  next,  and 
doubting  his  complete  sobriety. 

Lord  Grindelay  had  a  way  of  rocking  the  baby  in  his 
arms,  tossing  and  talking  to  him,  that  drove  her  almost  dis- 
tracted. 

Once  it  was  sick  over  his  coat,  bringing  up  that  half- 
digested  artificial  milk.  Even  that  failed  to  upset  Lord 
Grindelay's  good  temper. 

"Here,  take  him  away  and  empty  him,  nurse.  Bedad, 
but  he's  his  father  over  again.  I'll  not  think  any  the  worse 
of  him  for  that ;  he's  had  a  drop  more  than  he  can  keep  down." 

Agatha  thought  the  incident  quite  disgusting;  she  was 
intolerant  of  both  father  and  son. 

The  baby's  christening  kept  Lord  Grindelay  at  Marley. 


43  FULL  SWING 

Although  it  was  against  her  wishes,  in  the  end  it  was  Lord 
Grindelay  who  chose  the  name.  He  had  his  rights,  and  so  far 
as  his  son  was  concerned  it  appeared  he  meant  to  exercise 
them. 

"  He'll  be  Desmond  O'Rourke  Warner,  like  his  grand- 
father." 

"  He  should  have  my  father's  name." 

"An'  what  might  that  be?" 

"  Archibald ! " 

"Archibald,  now!  To  think  of  it!  Is  it  Archibald  he 
looks  like,  or  Reginald?  Is  it  an  Englishman  he  is  at  all? 
Look  at  his  eyes  now,  blue  as  me  own,  and  the  black  hair  of 
him.  My  mother  was  an  O'Rourke,  an'  I'll  give  him  her 
name  and  Desmond.  There  were  Desmonds  at  Languedoc 
before  the  flood.  It's  only  meself  they  called  Patrick  because 
my  elder  brother  was  alive  when  I  was  bom,  and  we  couldn't 
all  be  Desmonds." 

She  gave  way  to  liim.  The  baby  was  christened  before 
it  was  a  month  old,  for  Agatha  thought  Lord  Grindelay 
would  go  back  to  Languedoc  or  up  to  London  when  he  had 
seen  his  wishes  carried  out.  But  he  lingered  on,  disorganising 
her  household,  disturbing  her  peace.  The  baby  allured  him ; 
there  was  never  a  day  when  he  failed  to  ask  of  his  progress, 
taking  him  from  the  cradle  or  the  nurse's  lap;  he  was  very 
handy  with  him,  more  so  than  Agatha  herself. 

"  We'll  make  a  boxing  man  of  liim ;  see  him  doubling  up 
his  little  fists?" 

Agatha's  convalescence  was  a  long  one,  and,  of  course, 
Pat  could  not  sit  in  her  room  all  day,  or  with  the  baby. 
He  was  horribly  bored  at  Marley,  although  pleased  with  the 
new  sensation  of  fatherhood.  He  was  really  not  half  such 
a  scoundrel  as  he  appeared  in  Agatha's  eyes.  With  a  woman 
like  his  own  sister  Dinah,  for  instance,  who  would  have 
laughed  with  him  and  drank  with  him,  coaxed  and  rated  him, 
understood  and  managed  him,  he  might  have  been  made  into 
a  tolerable  semblance  of  a  husband  at  tliis  juncture.  For  he 
had  always  been  fond  of  children,  as  they  of  him,  and  to  have 
one  of  his  own,  this  one,  who  held  on  to  his  thumb  and  began 


FULL  SWING  4S 

to  gurgle  and  "wriggle  and  smile  crookedly  when  he  tickled  or 
tossed  him,  almost  made  a  new  man  of  him.    Almost,  not  quite. 

He  was  over  fifty  and  had  been  for  years  a  toper.  He 
could  not  sit  all  day  long  in  his  wife's  bedroom  playing  with 
the  baby;  he  had  to  find  some  entertainment  for  himself. 
There  was  a  billiard  table  at  the  Court,  but  he  preferred  the 
one  at  the  "  King's  Arms  "  in  Great  Marley,  where  his  pic- 
turesque language  drew  a  whole  admiring  company  about 
Mm.  He  was  extraordinarily  popular  at  the  "  King's  Arms," 
and  with  the  London  people  who  lived  in  the  new  villas  at 
Great  Marley;  which,  coming  to  the  ears  of  his  wife,  made 
matters  no  better  with  her.  To  be  popular  with  billiard-room 
loungers,  tap-room  loafers,  and  even  the  wives  of  stockbrokers, 
proud  to  entertain  a  peer,  who  was  also  the  husband  of  one 
of  the  great  local  magnates,  debased  him  further  in  Agatha's 
estimation.  When  she  heard  that  he  could  tell  a  good  story, 
she  knew  by  experience  that  it  was  a  bad  one  they  meant.  He 
said  openly  that  her  friends  were  "  damned  dull  and  too 
strait-laced  for  him ! "  He  did  unheard-of  things,  things 
unheard  of,  at  least  at  Marley,  inviting  people  to  the  Court 
to  dine  or  drink  with  him  who  should  have  stood,  hat  in  hand, 
in  hall  or  library. 

She  and  her  pride  suffered  from  him.  It  is  certain  that 
he  was  little  more  pleased  with  her.  "  To  hell  with  changing 
my  habits ! "  was  the  least  of  his  refusals  to  see  her  point  of 
view.    They  had  no  common  ground  on  which  to  meet. 

Although  he  had  a  certain  insolence  of  rank,  he  had  no 
sense  of  its  duties  or  responsibilities.  "Whatever  he  does, 
he  is  always  a  gentleman,"  said  the  admiring  stockbrokers' 
wives  to  whom  he  made  careless  love  in  his  cups.  But  to 
Agatha  it  seemed  he  was  always  a  blackguard,  and  that  her 
duty  to  herself,  her  neighbours,  the  estate  and  her  son  de- 
manded that  she  should  rid  herself  of  him. 

When  she  was  well  again,  and  went  about  the  house  and 
village,  she  found  some  of  the  conditions  that  prevailed  at 
Languedoc  were  being  reproduced  in  Marley.  Certainly, 
Lord  Grindelay  was  no  example  for  a  model  village.  Her 
troublesome  conscience  was  brought  to  bear  on  the  situation. 


44  FULL  SWING 

If  she  had  made  a  mistake,  others  must  not  suffer.  Lord 
Grindelay  was  a  spendthrift  in  addition  to  all  his  other  dis- 
abilities, and  Marley,  if  not  herself,  must  be  protected.  For- 
tunately, she  had  not  put  it  out  of  her  power  to  do  this.  She 
overcame  her  reluctance  in  the  end  and  sent  for  Andrew. 

Perhaps  that  was  one  of  the  worst  moments  in  her  life. 
His  strong  sense  and  warnings,  his  contempt  and  love  for 
her,  all  he  knew  and  all  she  had  not  forgotten,  made  a  meet- 
ing between  them  under  these  new  conditions  fraught  with 
humiliation.  But  it  would  be  more  impossible  to  talk  to  a 
stranger.  Perhaps,  too,  she  felt  she  had  wronged  Andrew,  or 
that  he  was  part  of  the  Marley  life  to  which  she  had  returned. 

When  Andrew  came  at  her  summons  he  found  the  way 
to  make  things  easy  for  her.  He  had  gone  through  his  own 
bad  time  and  that  may  have  taught  him  to  assuage  hers.  The 
past  might  never  have  been;  the  tender  or  proprietorial  air 
no  longer  existed.  He  presented  himself  now  only  as  an  old 
friend,  a  middle-aged  law}^er  here  on  business.  He  knew 
better  than  to  sympathise  with  Agatha.  In  no  time  at  all, 
and  without  a  word  to  establish  it,  a  new  understanding  was 
between  them,  and  she  could  speak  to  him  more  plainly  and 
undisguisedly  than  to  anyone  else. 

What  Andrew  McKay  thought  of  the  position  can  be  imag- 
ined, and  his  quick  decision  as  to  how  it  was  to  be  met.  Yet 
it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  have  succeeded  in  extricating  her 
but  for  the  elderly  scapegrace  himself.  It  appeared  that  Lord 
Grindelay  was  quite  willing  to  meet  their  views — would  agree 
to  a  separation  on  terms.  By  this  time  Agatha  was  ready  to 
give  him  almost  any  terms  he  asked,  for  the  scandal  was  ever- 
growing, destroying  her  influence,  making  her  a  byword.  She 
was  so  impatient  that  Andrew  had  much  trouble  to  get  a 
proper  agreement  drawn  up.  She  would  have  sacrificed  half 
her  fortane  to  rid  herself  altogether  of  the  merry  Irishman 
with  the  roving  eye.  But  divorce  was  out  of  the  question,  for 
he  had  neither  deserted  nor  been  legally  cruel  to  her. 

Lord  Grindelay  refused  to  give  up  his  paternal  rights. 
Andrew  McKay  had  to  meet  his  lawyers,  to  make  conces- 
sions.    And  when  he  would  make  no  further  concessions, 


FULL  SWING  45 

counsel  was  consulted,  and  finally  the  matter  went  before  a 
judge  in  chambers.  There  the  Solomon-like  judgment  wa^  pro- 
nounced that  the  custody  of  the  child  should  be  vested  equally 
in  mother  and  father.  The  boy  was  nearly  a  year  old  before 
this  decision  was  arrived  at,  and  already  the  dual  ownership 
had  offended  and  estranged  the  baby's  mother.  Lord  Grinde- 
lay  came  backward  and  forward  to  Marley  whilst  the  lawyers 
were  at  work.  Perhaps  this  accounted  for  her  accepting  the 
decree. 

Her  acquiescence  may  also  have  owed  something  to  the 
bad  news  from  India  that  came  to  hand  about  the  same  time. 

When  once  she  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  her  anger, 
Agatha  had  found  herself  unable  completely  to  repudiate  the 
claims  of  her  runaway  step-sister.  Marley  was  not  entailed, 
but  for  generation  after  generation  it  had  descended  in  the 
direct  line.  After  her  baby  was  bom  Agatha  was  the  more 
sorry  for  Monica,  because  she  had  lost  her  inheritance.  In 
fact,  she  had  every  excuse  but  the  true  one ;  the  true  one  being 
that  her  little  sister  had  stood  so  near  her  heart  that  she 
could  trample  upon  it,  and  the  footprints  were  ineradicably 
there. 

And  Monica,  as  if  unconscious  of  her  disloyalty  or 
duplicity,  had  never  ceased  to  write.  Whether  Agatha  an- 
swered or  not,  she  wrote. 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  left  Marley,"  was  the  beginning  of 
one  of  these  early  letters.  And  after  the  first  time  she  wrote 
it  often  and  passionately.  The  marriage,  of  course,  proved  a 
failure.  Two  selfish  young  people,  inconsiderate  as  these  had 
proved  themselves,  living  in  a  tropical  climate,  with  limited 
means,  soon  found  matrimony  anything  but  an  ideal  state. 

Agatha,  after  she  had  made  her  own  inconceivable  mar- 
riage, softened  wonderfully  toward  the  girl.  She  began  to 
send  her  money,  clothes,  and  sympathy.  Did  she  not  herself 
know  how  unhappy  an  unhappy  marriage  could  be?  Monica 
had  been  little  more  than  a  child  when  she  made  her  mis- 
take; she  herself  was  nearly  forty!  She  read  of  broken 
health,  isolation  in  the  dreadful  up-station  where  Basil's  regi- 
ment was  quartered,  the  terrible  home-sickness  that  was  the 


46  FULL  SWING 

note  of  all  the  letters.     The  last  one  led  to  her  precipitate 
action : 

"  Darling  Sister, — I  wish  I  could  feel  you  forgave 
me.  Always  when  I  have  my  worst  bouts  of  malaria,  in 
the  shivering  stages,  I  feel  that  nothing  but  your  arms 
could  ever  warm  me.  Do  you  recollect  how  often  I  used 
to  come  into  your  bed?  I  know  I  shall  never  see  you 
again,  and  you  can't  tell  how  I  long  for  you.  Do  the 
trees  still  rustle  in  Marley  Chase,  and  does  the  cool 
river  run?  I  want  the  beeches  and  elms,  and  to  hear 
the  birds  sing  after  rain.  All  the  vegetation  here  seems 
hot  and  reeking  of  the  natives.  How  I  hate  all  their 
black  faces  and  the  smell  of  everything.  I  have  had 
three  disappointments.  I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  well 
for  a  day  since  I've  been  here.  If  this  baby  that  is  coming 
could  have  been  bom  at  Marley! 

I  had  to  put  down  my  pen  when  I  thought  of  it; 
the  wide,  welcoming  hall,  and  you;  the  sunken  garden 
where  the  violets  grow.  I  want  to  lean  against  the  old 
sundial,  to  see  the  leaden  figure  of  Pan  piping — I  want 
the  scent  of  the  roses  where  we  used  to  sit  in  the  pergola 
and  look  upon  the  woods,  where  you  told  me  stories  of 
the  dear  dead  Wansteads  and  their  worth.  I  used  to  be 
bored  with  it  then,  and  your  seriousness  about  the  family, 
but  I  wouldn't  be  bored  now  with  anything  you  said. 
If  only  I  could  hear  your  voice!  Every  day  and  hour, 
and  desperately  in  the  nights,  I  want  you ;  your  strength 
and  courage.  You  don't  love  me  any  more,  do  you? 
But  I  want  you  to  be  sorry  for  me,  to  forgive  me.  I 
don't  believe  I'm  going  to  live  through  it,  I  am  dying 
of  home-sickness.  Be  a  little  sorry  for  me. — ^Your  loving, 
loving  Monica." 

This  letter  came  when  Agatha's  own  baby  was  but  a  year 
or  so  old.  She  had  not  yet  forgotten  what  she  had  gone 
through,  even  at  Marley,  in  her  large  cool  bedroom,  from 
whose  windows  she  could  see  those  green  and  distant  woods. 


FULL  SWING  47 

She  had  not  yet  forgotten  what  she  had  borne,  with  all  the 
alleviations  that  money  and  modern  science  could  give  her. 

She  cabled  that  Monica  was  to  come  home  at  once;  no 
expense  was  to  be  spared.  She  began  to  make  preparations 
without  delay.  Already  she  saw  herself  caring  for  her;  she 
would  make  the  girl  feel  this  was  indeed  home  to  which  she 
had  come.  There  must  be  no  scene  of  reconciliation,  but 
Monica  should  understand  how  welcome  she  was. 

Her  own  baby  had  in  no  way  replaced  her  sister's  image. 
At  present  he  was  no  more  to  her  than  a  tempestuous  child 
craving  violent  movement,  of  a  sex  toward  which  her  inherent 
antipathy  had  deepened — the  heir  to  Marley.  Not  at  all  like 
Monica,  who  had  wheedled  an  irresistible  way  into  her  heart. 
He  was  something  strange  and  alien,  from  which,  if  the  whole 
truth  were  known,  she  shrank  a  little.  With  Monica  it  had 
always  been  so  different.  She  gave  orders  which  room  was 
to  be  prepared,  and  even  talked  matters  over  with  Dr.  Eeid. 

The  answering  cable  upset  all  her  plans,  distressed  and 
disappointed  her. 

"  Doctor  forbids  travel.    Very  grateful  and  lonely.'* 

"And  lonely!" 

It  was  those  two  words  that  did  it.  She  was  never  at  ease 
after  that.  She  felt  impelled  to  go,  and  this  although  her 
own  freedom  was  not  complete  and  the  lawyers  were  still  at 
work.  Lord  Grindelay  carried  his  son  off  triumphantly  to 
Languedoc  when  Agatha,  hurrying  through  her  preparations, 
went  out  to  India.  Biddy  proved  a  better  nurse  to  little 
Desmond  than  she  had  been  a  maid  to  his  mother,  but  of  this 
more  presently. 

Agatha  went  out  to  India,  and  up  to  that  lonely  station. 

Monica's  trembling  impassioned  greeting,  tears  and  peni- 
tence, the  way  she  clung  to  her  as  if  she  could  never  let  her 
go  again,  broke  down  utterly  in  her  arms,  and  said  how  in- 
credible and  impossible  it  was  that  she  was  here,  and  that  she 
had  never  thought  to  see  her  again,  and  was  dying  for  the 
need  of  her,  made  her  captive  again  to  the  girl. 

In  India  Agatha  spent  many  weary  months,  fighting 
climate  and  a  weakened  constitution.     In  the  end  she  was 


48  FULL  SWING 

worsted  by  Death.  But  her  own  courage  came  back  to  her 
during  those  months  whilst  she  fought  for  her  sister's  life. 
And  when  slie  returned  to  Marley  she  had  her  last  gift  in  her 
arms  to  anchor  it. 

"  Take  my  baby  back  to  Marley  with  you,  be  to  her  what 
you  were  to  me,  only  that,  sister.  I  know  now,  if  I  never  knew 
before,  that  I  deserve  everything  that  has  happened.  I  give 
you  my  baby  for  your  own — for  your  very  own.  Love  her  for 
me  as  well  as  for  yourself.  Take  care  of  her  like  you  did 
me — promise,  promise." 

Dying  lips  cannot  be  denied.  The  promise  was  given,  and 
kept  rarely.  If  it  was  kept  mistakenly,  that  is  because  it  was 
ingrain  in  Agatha  Wanstead  to  do  the  wrong  thing. 


CHAPTER  V 

Agatha  came  back  to  Marley,  bringing  her  sister's  legacy 
with  her.  Basil  Fellowes  made  no  objection.  Unlike  Lord 
Grindelay,  he  had  no  feeling  for  children,  nor  had  he  much 
for  anything  else  except  "pegs"  and  polo.  He  was  glad  to 
be  free,  and  never  disputed  Monica's  right  to  give  away  that 
which  belonged  to  them  in  common.  Agatha  brought  the  baby 
back  to  Marley,  the  small  pale  baby  with  an  Indian  ayah.  It 
needed  so  much  care  and  nursing,  and  was  so  fragile  a  blossom 
that  more  than  once  it  seemed  impossible  it  could  survive  the 
voyage.  The  more  need  it  had  of  Agatha,  the  stronger  became 
its  claims ;  it  was  as  if  Monica  herself  had  been  restored  to  her. 

When  she  rea<?hed  home,  to  find  her  own  young  son  not 
there,  she  almost  forgot  to  miss  him,  to  recall  him. 

Lord  Grindelay  did  not  carry  out  very  honestly  the  con- 
tract into  which  he  had  entered.  Neither  he  nor  Biddy  wanted 
to  part  with  the  boy,  and  when,  at  Andrew's  instigation. 
Agatha  insisted  upon  her  rights,  the  pleasure  proved  very 
questionable.  Biddy  brought,  him  over,  and  was  almost  as 
distracting  to  the  household  as  Lord  Grindelay  himself. 
She  quarrelled  with  Eunice's  nurse,  arguing  the  superiority 
of  her  own  charge.  Desmond  had  grown  into  a  fine  sturdy 
child,  not  much  better-mannered  than  his  nurse.  He  refused 
his  mother's  lap,  walked  about  by  himself,  defied  nursery 
authority,  said  his  few  words  in  the  broadest  of  brogues. 
Biddy  was  so  shrewd  and  volubly  reticent  that,  to  use  the 
language  of  the  servants'  quarters,  "  no  one  could  come  out 
with  her."  When  she  went  back,  taking  the  little  boy  with 
her,  it  was  a  relief  to  everyone.  By  this  time  Agatha  had 
settled  down  again.  This  little  girl  was  so  like  the  other  little 
girl  her  father's  death  had  left  to  her,  that  sometimes  it  seemed 
as  if  the  pendulum  had  swung  back  and  her  youth  had  been 
restored  to  her. 

But  when  Desmond  was  in  his  seventh  year  Andrew  spoke 
seriously  to  her  of  her  duty  towards  her  son. 
4  49 


50  FULL  SWING 

"  He  is  having  no  education,  running  wild  with  the  ser- 
vants, and  without  any  control.  The  other  day,  in  Dublin, 
Lord  Grindelay  was  heard  to  boast  that,  although  his  son 
was  only  seven,  he  could  smoke  a  pipe  without  being  sick, 
and  *  drink  his  glass  like  a  man ! '  You  have  your  duty  to 
him ;  you  can't  let  things  go !  " 

When  Agatha  knew  her  duty  she  did  it,  however  reluc- 
tantly. Again  she  asserted  her  claim,  and  again  Lord  Grinde- 
lay complied  unwillingly,  taking  his  own  measures  to  circum- 
vent her. 

"  She'll  get  tired  of  you ;  she  likes  her  own.  way,  and 
mind  you  don't  give  it  to  her.  Languedoc's  your  home,  and 
don't  you  forget  it!  You're  an  Irishman,  it's  the  fools  of 
lawyers  that  send  you  to  Marley.  Make  her  sorry  when  she 
gets  you  there !  " 

The  little  boy  he  addressed  was  devoted  to  his  father, 
like  all  of  them  at  Languedoc.  Lord  Grindelay  roared  at 
his  son's  worst  misdemeanours,  and  encouraged  him  in  his 
naughtiest  exploits.  He  had  his  own  way  in  everything,  pos- 
sessed a  pony,  and  even  a  gun.  He  was  told  that  in  England 
he  would  have  none  of  these  things,  but  would  be  expected  to 
mind  his  "  p's  "  and  "  q's,"  be  on  his  best  behaviour.  Every- 
thing English  was  represented  to  him  as  implying  restraint. 
He  had  his  hints  from  Biddy  and  Larry  as  well  as  his  instruc- 
tions from  his  father,  and  these  were  all  to  the  effect  that  he 
"  wasn't  to  make  them  anxious  to  keep  him." 

This  time  Lady  Grindelay  had  insisted  the  little  boy  was 
to  come  alone,  without  Biddy  or  her  influence.  She  agreed 
with  Andrew  when  he  pointed  out  to  her  that  she  had  to 
combat  his  father's  influence  and  exert  her  own.  Andrew 
spoke  seriously.  His  own  young  Michael  was  a  scholar  of 
Winchester.  Agatha's  son  must  not  be  allowed  to  run  wild 
any  longer. 

The  boy  came,  and  proved  as  amenable  as  a  fox  in  a  farm- 
yard. He  got  into  the  stables,  rode  the  horses  without  saddle 
or  bridle  or  permission,  ran  riot  in  the  garden  and  green- 
houses, could  not  be  brought  to  punctuality  at  meals,  could 
not  be  coaxed  or  persuaded  to  cleanliness,  while  he  generally 


FULL  SWING  51 

defied  authority.  This  rough  little  fellow,  with  curly  black 
hair  and  blue  eyes,  of  whom  one  heard  nothing  but  com- 
plaints, who  used  bad  language,  ran  away  at  her  approach, 
was  nothing  but  a  stranger  in  his  mother's  house.  He  was 
Lord  Grindelay's  son.  If  at  this  time  Agatha  had  any  love  for 
him  at  all,  the  form  it  took  was  an  unrest  which  she  was 
for  ever  trying  to  subdue.  Her  conscience  troubled  her;  she 
could  never  bring  herself  to  punish,  hardly  even  to  admonish 
him;  she  felt  there  was  something  she  had  to  make  up  to 
him ;  that  it  was  not  his  fault  he  was  as  he  was.  She  let  him 
go  with  a  groom  to  the  local  hunt,  sent  him  up  to  London 
one  day  to  see  a  circus,  was  half  ashamed  of  herself  for  want- 
ing to  conciliate  or  win  him,  but  made  attempt  after  attempt. 

Children  have  an  instinctive  sense  of  justice.  This  was 
not  the  mother  little  Desmond  had  been  led  to  expect.  There 
were  things  about  her  he  could  not  help  liking,  although  he 
tried  to  be  loyal  to  his  father.  Already  in  his  young  groping 
way  he  was  trying  to  reach  to  some  knowledge  of  her.  The 
position  between  them  was  strange ;  he  was  only  a  shy  young 
animal,  bolting  at  her  approach,  coming  back  to  see  what 
had  alarmed  him,  sniffing  the  air  about  her.  And  Agatha 
was  almost  as  uneasy  as  he. 

All  his  wild  childhood  was  difficult  and  distracted  by  his 
ignorance  and  lack  of  understanding,  of  what  lay  between 
his  parents.  The  law  was  to  blame;  the  position  was  alto- 
gether untenable.  After  six  months  as  Marley,  Lord  Grrinde- 
lay  demanded  the  boy  back.  But  he  had  been  at  Languedoc 
five  and  a  half  years  out  of  his  seven,  and  Agatha  would  not 
let  him  go.  In  the  rain  of  lawyer's  letters  the  boy  suddenly 
disappeared.  In  other  words.  Lord  Grindelay,  or  his  myrmi- 
dons, abducted  him ;  he  was  battledoor  and  shuttlecock  between 
his  parents.  Two  long  years  passed  before  he  was  restored 
again  to  Marley. 

All  this  time  Eunice  was  outgrowing  her  delicacy,  and 
developing  beauty  and  charm.  She  was  truly  an  exquisite 
little  creature,  with  the  sweetest  nature;  it  had  been  impos- 
sible to  spoil  her.  If  she  had  not  entirely  taken  Monica's 
place  with  Agatha,  no  one  but  Agatha  guessed  it. 


52  FULL  SWING 

Eunice  was  seven  and  Desmond  was  nine  when  the  boy 
was  again  at  Marley.  Agatha  spoke  of  him  to  Andrew,  again 
a  constant  visitor  and  now  her  most  intimate  friend. 

"  I  feel  less  able  than  before  to  influence  him.  The  long 
interval  since  he  was  here  has  been  used  only  to  poison  his 
mind  against  me.     I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done." 

The  little  girl  was  on  Andrew's  knee.  He  pulled  her  curls 
and  asked  her: 

"  What  do  you  say,  little  maiden,  is  to  be  done  with  this 
young  '  Struwwelpeter '  ?    Shall  we  dip  him  in  the  ink  ?  " 

"  We  mustn't  be  cwuel !  "  the  little  one  answered  gravely, 

"  Well,  what  are  we  to  do  with  him  if  he  won't  do  as  he 
is  told — if  he  will  be  a  naughty  boy  ?  " 

"  We  must  love  him  and  cuddle  him,  and  then  he'll  be 
good,"  she  said  confidently,  having  known  nothing  but  cud- 
dling and  the  smallest  of  nursery  peccadilloes. 

"  You  hear  that,  Agatha  ?  What  do  you  think  of  the  pre- 
scription ?  " 

"  She  will  have  to  do  it  herself,  then,"  answered  Agatha 
quickly,  with  a  strangely  rising  flush.  Andrew  put  the  child 
down. 

"  Run  and  fetch  him,  I  want  to  see  him.  We  shall  have 
to  go  to  the  court  again,  I  expect,"  he  said  to  Agatha.  "  You 
say  he  can  barely  read  and  write,  and  he's  nearly  nine  years 
old !    We  shall  have  to  get  an  order  to  send  him  to  school." 

"  There  isn't  a  decent  school  that  would  take  him,"  Agatha 
answered,  ""nor  keep  him  if  they  did  take  him.  He  is  as 
ignorant  as  a  peasant." 

And  yet  with  her  bitterness  was  something  that  made 
Andrew  look  at  her  keenly. 

"  You  care  for  him  more  than  you  know,"  he  said.  And 
with  more  truth  than  he  knew. 

4:  4:  *  4!  * 

To  find  Desmond  and  bring  him  into  the  drawing-room 
Eunice  went  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  sending  her  voice  before 
her. 

"  Desmond,  Desmond !     Where  are  you,  Desmond  ?  " 
She  knew  most  of  his  haunts;  it  is  harder  to  keep  children 


FULL  SWING  53 

apart  than  their  elders  know.  He  had  not  been  encouraged 
in  the  nursery,  for  none  of  his  ways  were  nursery  ways,  but 
he  had  been  there  all  the  same.  Eunice  knew  all  his  haunts 
except  a  new  one  he  had  found  only  that  afternoon,  on  the 
branch  of  a  tree.  Save  that  he  became  sorry  for  her  searching, 
and  because  his  heart  was  soft,  although  so  few  at  Marley 
guessed  it  yet,  she  might  never  have  discovered  him. 

"  Silly  Billy !  Where's  your  eyes  ?  I've  been  here  all  the 
time.  What's  up  ?  What  for  are  you  wanting  me  ?  "  he  called 
out. 

"  Oh,  Desmond,  what  a  lovely  new  place !  " 

"  Come  along  up ;  there's  room  for  two !  " 

"  Me ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  You're  afraid  of  tearing  your  muslin  pinny. 
What  a  baby  you  are !  And  there's  a  hole  in  it  already,  so 
there ! " 

But  there  was  no  hole,  it  was  white  and  immaculate  as 
when  she  left  the  nursery.    He  knew  how  to  tease  her. 

"  Who  wants  me  ?  What's  afoot  now  ?  Aren't  you  coming 
up?" 

"  I  don't  know  how." 

"  Don't  know  how !  "  he  mimicked  her.  "  Don't  know 
how  to  climb  a  tree,  don't  know  how  to  sit  a  horse,  don't 
know  how  to  drive  him,  or  hold  the  reins,  or  set  a  ferret! 
Too  nice,  how  nice,  Yewnice!  That's  the  way  to  say  your 
silly  name.  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  being  only  a  silly  girl? 
Listen.  I'll  pretend  I'm  a  thrush."  He  mimicked  the 
long  sweet  note.  "  I'm  coming  down  to  help  you  up.  Look 
out !  I'm  going  to  jump."  He  swung  himself  from  the 
branch  and  dropped  at  her  feet. 

There  were  less  than  three  years  between  them,  and,  of 
course,  she  thought  him  wonderful.  She  knew  he  was  a  rough 
boy,  because  Nurse  said  so,  but  there  was  no  better  companion, 
and  he  was  never  really  rough  with  her.  He  knew  ever}'thing 
about  animals,  could  imitate  birds,  make  the  hares  in  the 
woods  come  to  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  for  ?  "  he  asked  when  he  stood 
beside  her. 


54  FULL  SWING 

"  Auntie  wants  you.  Uncle  Andrew's  in  the  drawing-room 
and  he  wants  you.  You'll  come,  won't  you  ?  "  For  even  she 
knew  how  difficult  it  was  to  get  Desmond  to  come  at  a  call. 

She  slipped  her  small  hand  confidently  in  his  as  he  stood 
beside  her. 

"  No;  I  shan't  come.  Why  should  I  ?  He  isn't  my  Uncle 
Andrew.    I  shall  stay  where  I  am." 

"  And  auntie  would  like  you  to  look  your  best.  He  hasn't 
seen  you  for  such  a  long  time,"  she  coaxed. 

"You'd  be  having  me  put  on  a  velvet  suit  and  a  lace 
collar !  "  he  scoffed. 

"  Just  wash  part  of  your  hands."  She  was  coaxing  him, 
she  did  not  mean  to  be  funny,  only  to  let  him  down  easily. 

"  I'll  race  you  from  here  to  the  end  of  the  lawn ;  you  can 
have  three-quarters'  start.  I'll  go  in  to  the  old  gossoon  if  you 
get  there  first." 

"And  if  I  win,  you'll  wash?"  She  was  quick  to  take 
advantage  of  the  opening. 

"  That's  for  the  seeing ;  it  isn't  you  that'll  be  winning. 
Start  now,  and  when  you  get  to  that  copper  beech  you  can 
run,  I'll  call  out  to  you." 

Long-legged,  slender,  her  fair,  well-tended  curls  floated 
behind  her,  she  ran  gracefully  and  swiftly.  More  stockily 
built,  very  little  taller  for  all  his  additional  years,  he  had 
over-handicapped  himself,  and  reached  the  lawn  a  second 
later  than  she  did.  She  was  panting,  out  of  breath,  already 
almost  sorry  she  had  won. 

"  I  believe  I  began  to  run  before  you  said  '  off ! ' "  she  said 
breathlessly. 

He  was  annoyed,  but  not  unfair. 

"  I'm  going  round  by  the  stables.  Say  I'll  be  there  in  ten 
minutes." 

She  knew  he  would  keep'  to  the  terms  of  the  wager  although 
he  had  not  ratified  it,  and  she  went  contentedly  in  search  of 
Nurse,  who  would  smooth  her  slightly  disordered  curls,  adjust 
the  blue  bow,  and  remove  the  white  pinafore  in  which  there 
was  no  hole,  uncovering  the  soft  white  frock  of  silk  and 
Valenciennes  lace.    Agatha,  who  disguised  her  femininity  in 


FULL  SWING  55 

tweeds,  coats  and  skirts  and  felt  hats  of  the  masculine  shape, 
spared  nothing  in  Eunice's  adornment.  She  was  dressed  like 
a  young  princess. 

"It  was  too  bad  sending  you  after  Master  Desmond.  I 
suppose  he  led  you  a  dance  ?  "  Nurse  grumbled. 

'^  We  had  a  race.  And  it's  all  right,  he's  gone  up  to  dress. 
I  liked  racing  with  him,  he  gave  me  a  long  start." 

Nurse  kissed  her;  it  was  a  way  people  had  with  Eunice. 
Not  only  because  she  was  so  fair  and  soft  to  kiss,  but  because 
even  before  she  could  reason  she  had  the  instinct  to  wish  every- 
one to  be  happy.  From  the  very  first  she  had  that  gift  of 
loving  tact.  Nurse  must  not  feel  her  work  had  been  wasted. 
Uncle  Andrew  would  see  Desmond  in  the  drawing-room  look- 
ing so  that  Auntie  could  be  proud  of  him. 

"  If  only  he  gets  his  parting  straight !  " 

That  was  the  thought  in  her  little  mind  as  she  stood  before 
the  drawing-room  door. 

The  large  drawing-room,  half  dark,  was  full  of  heavy 
walnut  furniture,  the  chair  seats  were  all  thickly  embroid- 
ered, and  so  were  the  heavy  curtains;  the  work  of  dead  and 
forgotten  hands.  Great  cabinets  of  china  stood  like  sentinels 
against  the  walls,  throwing  into  shadow  the  family  portraits, 
dingy  landscapes  and  religious  pictures.  On  round  tables 
stood  Oriental  bowls,  full  of  potpourri.  From  the  conserva- 
tory— almost  large  enough  to  be  called  a  winter  garden,  came 
the  chirping  of  the  varied  plumage  birds  that  swung  among 
the  palm  trees.  This  was  the  right  setting  for  Agatha;  her 
ancestral  surroundings  gave  her  the  self-confidence  she  some- 
times lacked. 

The  little  girl  went  into  the  room,  sure  of  her  welcome,  and 
stood  at  Agatha's  side,  placing  a  hand  on  her  knee.  No  one 
else  put  a  hand  on  Agatha's  knee,  she  was  not  a  caressing 
woman,  and  did  not  inspire  demonstration.  Andrew  McKay 
thought  that  Eunice  had  taken  Monica's'  place,  keeping  the 
boy  a  little  out  of  his  own,  perhaps. 

"Is  Desmond  coming?" 

"  He  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  You're  not  going  to  scold 
him,  auntie." 


56  FULL  SWING 

"  No ;  I'm  not  going  to  scold  Desmond.  Has  he  done  any- 
thing to  deserve  it  ? "' 

"He  never  means  to  do  anything  bad."  She  hesitated. 
"  He  does  just  what  comes  into  his  head." 

"  Not  unlike  his  mother/'  interposed  Andrew  quizzically. 

Agatha  gave  a  quick  gesture  of  dissent.  She  saw  no  like- 
ness between  herself  and  her  son. 

Desmond  was  a  boy  of  his  word.  He  had  washed  not  only 
his  hands  but  his  face.  But  he  was  not  a  picture-postcard, 
velveteen-and-lace-collar  boy.  He  wore  a  knickerbocker  suit 
of  worn  tweed  and  a  turndown  collar  in  its  second  stage;  his 
boots  were  irregularly  laced,  and  his  stockings  not  properly 
pulled  up.  His  hands  were  rough  and  ill-kempt;  one  wash- 
ing had  been  obviously  insufficient  for  them.  There  was  a 
watermark  between  his  chin  and  a  red  ear  that  some  teased 
beast  had  bitten ;  he  had  what  his  mother  called  "  a  game- 
keeper's complexion";  the  crooked  parting  Eunice  had  feared 
showed  irregularly  in  the  crisp  black  of  his  hair,  a  front  tooth 
had  been  chipped.    Only  his  blue  eyes  were  beyond  criticism. 

Andrew  had  a  son  of  his  own  now,  older  than  this  boy, 
and  being  very  carefully  reared.  He  had  not  seen  the  Marley 
heir  for  nearly  two  years,  and,  after  greeting,  began  almost 
immediately  to  question  him.  Andrew  had  but  one  standard 
of  education,  and  Desmond  fell  hopelessly  below  it. 

He  had  not  begun  Latin  or  French ;  as  for  his  arithmetic 
there  was  not  a  question  Andrew  put  to  him  that  he  an- 
swered correctly.  He  shuffled  on  his  feet,  resented  the  exami- 
nation, became  dogged  and  sullen. 

"  It  is  even  worse  than  I  anticipated,"  was  Andrew's  con- 
clusion. "  There  is  no  doubt  something  must  be  done,"  he 
said  to  her.  "  You  ought  to  be  at  school,  you  know,"  he  told 
the  boy.  "  You  would  like  to  have  companions,  be  with  other 
fellows  of  your  own  age !  " 

"No,  I  shouldn't!"  Desmond  said  bluntly.  "I  don't 
want  to  go  to  school  in  England." 

Agatha  had  invited  her  friends'  sons  to  play  with  him, 
the  boys  from  Denham  and  Amherst.     He  had  nothing  in 


FULL  SWING  57 

common  "with,  these  English  boys,  dressed  in  black  cloth  and 
Eton  collars,  from  high-class  preparatory  schools,  who  talked 
of  cricket  or  football,  who  could  not  imitate  the  notes  of 
birds,  or  ride  bare-backed ;  boys  as  clean  as  Eunice,  unfriendly 
to  him  and  curious. 

"  I  am  not  wanting  to  be  with  English  boys." 

Having  thus  answered,  and  shown  that  her  consideration 
in  providing  him  with  playmates  had  been  wasted,  the  boy 
flushed  and  glanced  at  his  mother.  He  had  done  every  con- 
ceivable tiling  that  had  been  forbidden  in  the  last  forty-eight 
hours,  and  now  he  showed  his  ignorance  and  ingratitude.  He 
was  ashamed  that  there  were  no  consequences  to  be  faced. 
Agatha  never  punished  him;  she  was  always  pursuing  her 
extraordinary  inoperative  methods  towards  gaining  his  con- 
fidence. He  guessed  they  had  been  talking  about  him,  that 
it  was  on  his  account  the  man  was  here.  He  knew  that  each 
visit  to  Marley  Court  showed  him  up  more  unfavourably.  He 
told  himself  he  did  not  care,  that  his  home  was  in  Fermanagh 
with  his  father,  the  home  that  was  one  day  to  be  his  own,  the 
pile  of  ruins  called  Languedoc  Castle,  the  uncultivated  acres 
and  wild  tenantry,  freedom. 

"  I  want  to  go  home ;  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school  here !  " 
he  burst  out. 

"  But  you  know  this  is  your  home,"  Andrew  interrupted. 
"  I  think  he  should  fully  understand  that,"  he  said  to  Agatha. 

"  I'm  going  to  live  always  with  my  father  when  I'm  grown 
up,"  Desmond  answered,  flushed  and  dogged. 

"  You  really  want  to  grow  up  unlettered,  uncultured,  igno- 
rant? "  Andrew  ask  him  satirically. 

Desmond  had  known  all  this  was  coming,  his  father  had 
prepared  him.  They  wanted  to  pen  him  up  in  a  boarding 
school,  to  make  him  learn  Latin  and  Greek.  His  father  had 
incited  him  to  rebellion. 

"  They  want  to  cheat  me  of  my  six  months,  my  boy,  that's 
what  they  mean  to  do;  put  you  in  a  livery  with  a  high  hat  on 
like  a  groom !  "    For  Eton  had  already  been  discussed. 

The  discussion  was  continued  this  afternoon.  Andrew 
wanted  to  see  if  Desmond  had  imbibed  anything  of  the  Marley 


58  FULL  SWING 

Court  atmosphere,  if  he  had  any  appreciation  of  the  refine- 
ment and  beauty  of  his  mother's  mode  of  life.  If  it  were  so, 
he  was  unable  to  elicit  it.  The  boy  was  armed  on  all  points ; 
he  spoke  in  his  father's  words,  or  in  Biddy's.  He  thought  he 
was  being  loyal,  yet  watched  his  mother's  face.  If  he  were 
defiant  there  was  a  strange  undercurrent. 

All  the  time  the  lawyer  spoke  Desmond  was  sick  with  his 
own  sullen  and  dogged  replies.  For  somewhere  in  his  secret 
heart  he  did  want  to  go  to  school  and  grow  up  like  other 
boys,  not  to  be  ignorant  and  rough,  so  that  his  mother  should 
be  ashamed  of  liim. 

They  let  him  go  presently.  If  they  had  to  act  for  his 
benefit,  they  saw  they  would  have  to  do  without  any  help 
from  him.  Lord  Grindelay  had  used  his  opportunities  well, 
apparently  better  than  Agatha  had  used  hers. 

"  How  does  he  impress  you  ?  "  she  asked,  after  Desmond 
had  left  the  room,  slamming  the  door  behind  him,  with  a  nod 
for  "good-bye,"  and  as  if  he  were  glad  to  be  off,  and  had 
settled  the  question  of  his  future. 

"  He  only  wants  training/'  Andrew  answered  consolingly. 
"  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

Whatever  she  felt  about  him,  Andrew  could  read  it  was 
not  quite  what  she  expressed.  She  was  jealous  of  his  father's 
influence  upon  him,  although  too  instinctively  reticent  to 
show  or  even  admit  it.  She  was  hurt  that  he  would  rather  be 
at  Languedoc  than  Marley;  seeing  that  now  Marley  was  all 
that  an  estate  should  be,  and  Languedoc  but  a  ruin  and  a 
nightmare. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Andrew  McKay's  efforts  were  successful.  The  Court,  or 
the  Judge  in  Chambers,  agreed  that  the  heir  to  Marley  and 
Languedoc  must  certainly  be  educated.  Lord  Grindelay  could 
not  seriously  oppose  it,  and  there  were  no  Protestant  schools 
in  Ireland  whose  claims  he  could  reasonably  urge.  Desmond 
was  therefore  sent  to  a  private  tutor,  and  ultimately  to  Eton, 
where  in  an  astonishingly  short  period  of  time  he  became 
completely  reconciled  not  only  to  what  his  father  had  been 
pleased  to  call  "  the  livery,''  but  even  to  the  discipline  and  re- 
straints. For  this  probably  the  games  were  responsible.  From 
the  beginning  fives  and  football  appealed  to  the  wild  little 
Irish  boy,  and  the  enchanting  river.  From  fives  he  graduated 
to  racquets,  and  from  sculling  to  rowing.  At  eighteen  he  had 
established  an  athletic,  although  not  a  scholastic,  reputa- 
tion, was  in  "  Pop,"  the  team  for  Queen's,  and,  after  having 
been  for  two  terms  in  the  boats,  had  a  chance  for  the  boat, 
a  distinction  with  a  difference  that  Eunice  knew  now  as 
well  as  himself. 

Desmond's  first  year  at  Eton  had  been  made  remarkable 
by  the  appearance  of  Lord  Grindelay  on  the  fourth  of  June 
in  a  white  hat  of  astonishing  antiquity,  a  loquacity  that  defied 
even  Dr.  Warre,  and  an  evening  mood  after  the  procession  of 
boats  and  fireworks  that  inclined  the  boy's  housemaster  then 
and  always  afterwards  to  be  sympathetic,  and  as  far  as  pos- 
sible even  compassionate,  to  his  shortcomings.  "  He  has 
had  a  bad  example,  poor  fellow;  we  must  not  be  hard  on 
him,"  explained  "me  tutor's"  mental  attitude  after  seeing 
the  effect  of  a  long  day's  thirst  upon  the  Irish  peer. 

Desmond  had  been  ordered  to  pass  half  his  vacation  with 
one,  and  the  remainder  with  the  other,  of  his  irreconcilable 
parents.  He  and  his  father  remained  good  friends,  and  there 
was  sport  enough  in  Fermanagh  with  the  dogs  and  the  horses 
to  keep  him  entertained,  even  when  he  grew  old  enough  and 
sufficiently  sophisticated  to  miss  the  physical  comforts  or  ener- 
vating luxuries  of  Marley. 

59 


60  FULL  SWING 

What  he  missed  most  at  Languedoc,  however,  as  the  years 
went  on,  was  the  devoted  service  and  admiring  hero-worship 
of  the  little  girl  who,  from  cleaning  his  gun  to  disentangling 
his  fishing  lines,  was  never  happier  than  when  waiting  upon 
him.  Between  his  mother  and  himself  there  was  the  barrier 
of  his  father,  although  now  and  again  it  did  not  seem  insur- 
mountable. 

Agatha  watched  Desmond  for  hereditary  vices,  yet  always 
with  a  growing  anxiety  to  find  him  a  Wanstead  and  not  a 
Foulds.  He  knew  he  was  watched,  feeling  sometimes  a  dumb 
resentment.  The  mothers  of  his  friends  loved  their  sons  un- 
critically. He  felt  a  mother-want  about  the  world,  it  brought 
him  closer  to  his  father,  with  whom  at  least  he  was  sure  of 
his  footing. 

At  the  end  of  his  last  year  at  Eton,  however,  Desmond 
had  taken  on  much  of  the  colour,  and  many  of  the  character- 
istics, of  the  school,  toning  better,  therefore,  with  the  Marley 
background.  This  year,  and  of  his  own  choice,  he  lingered 
through  the  Easter  vacation  at  Marley  when  he  should  have 
been  at  Languedoc.  Biddy  could  no  longer  be  sent  to  fetch 
him ;  he  was  too  old  for  force,  the  time  had  almost  come  when 
he  must  make  a  personal  selection  between  his  parents. 
Agatha,  for  ever  watching  him,  growing  more  exacting  as  she 
grew  more  fond,  vexed  herself  lately  over  his  reports,  and 
could  not  understand  his  lack  of  ambition,  his  low  place  in 
class. 

"There's  no  good  my  swotting,"  he  said  easily.  "It 
isn't  as  if  I  was  clever."  He  was  quite  satisfied  to  be  allowed 
to  remain  on,  and  not  to  be  superannuated. 

"  What  does  she  mean  with  her  ^  studying '  ?  "  he  said  to 
Eunice.  "  I'm  not  a  tug.  Isn't  she  pleased  that  I'll  have  a 
chance  for  the  eight  ?  "  He  had  an  almost  imperceptible  ac- 
cent, an  occasional  turn  of  phrase  or  thought  that  seemed 
un-English  to  his  mother.  Everything  that  was  Irish  held 
pain  for  her;  in  hiding  this  pain  she  hid  herself  from  her  son's 
eyes,  and  perhaps  a  little  from  her  own.  But  if  their  neu- 
trality flashed  sometimes  into  what  looked  like  antagonism, 
many  times  now  it  had  another  aspect. 


FULL  SWING  61 

'Now,  sometimes,  "when  Eunice  kissed  her,  coming  to  her 
for  love  or  mothering,  she  had  a  spasm  of  desire,  of  heart- 
ache that  the  caress  or  appeal  had  not  been  from  him. 

Nevertheless,  this  Easter  that  Desmond  lingered  in  ]\Iarley 
when  he  should  have  been  at  Languedoc  was  among  the  hap- 
piest times  she  had  ever  spent.  Unconsciously  she  began  to 
build  castles.  They  were  children  yet,  but  one  day  they  would 
grow  up. 

But  still,  true  to  herself,  she  would  not  encourage  her 
dreams.  She  reminded  herself  continually  of  her  promise  to 
Eunice's  mother.  This  was  the  first  time  she  began  to  realise, 
however  diml}^,  that  Eunice  was  her  duty,  and  Desmond  her 
son.  That  he  had  also  a  father  she  wished  now  to  be  able  to 
forget,  to  put  away  from  her  whenever  possible. 

Lord  Grindelay  had  grown  worse  as  the  years  went  on. 
Now  he  was  almost  a  monster  in  Agatha's  eyes;  her  own 
connection  with  him  well-nigh  unbearable.  Disgusting,  but 
never  incredible,  tales  surmounted  the  difficulties  of  the  Irish 
Channel,  and  were  wafted  to  Marley,  scandalous  tales  of 
drunken  orgies,  loose  women,  looser  language,  of  a  mode  of 
life  always  more  out  of  date. 

Therefore,  when  the  telegram  came  from  Languedoc  an- 
nouncing that  Lord  Grindelay  was  dead,  her  first  emotion 
was  one  of  overwhelming  relief.  It  seemed  almost  too  good 
to  be  true;  an  end  of  all  the  scandals.  She  had  lain  awake 
at  nights  thinking  how  to  avoid  exposing  the  adolescent  lad 
to  his  father's  contaminating  company;  how  to  prevent  his 
listening  to  his  dreadful  stories,  perhaps  finding  pleasure  in 
his  pleasures. 

She  was  so  relieved  in  knowing  there  was  now  no  reason 
why  her  son  should  not  grow  up  into  that  innocent  and 
immaculate  manhood  of  which  all  mothers  dream,  that  she 
never  paused  to  think  there  might  be  another  aspect  to  the 
question.  She  was  glad,  thankful.  It  never  struck  her  that 
Desmond  might  think  differently  about  his  father's  death. 

Desmond  was  out  when  the  telegram  came.  He  and 
Eunice  had  gone  together  to  a  tennis  tournament  at  Denham 
Place. 


62  FULL  SWING 

Agatha  thought  of  sending  for  him,  but  it  was  a  long  way 
off,  and  they  might  have  already  started  for  home ;  it  was  only 
an  afternoon  affair.  She  felt  extraordinarily  content  as  she 
waited  to  tell  Desmond  that  his  father  was  dead,  quite  obliv- 
ious of  any  point  of  view  but  her  own.  She  really  felt  that 
Lord  Grindelay  had  been  an  encumberer  of  the  ground.  She 
did  not  know  that  her  ever-growing  abhorrence  for  his  views 
had  been  deepened  by  their  dual  proprietorsliip  in  their  son. 
She  did  not  know  how  the  slow  growth  of  her  feelings  was 
rooting  them. 

Desmond  had  put  off  his  visit  to  Languedoc,  trying  to 
explain  himself  in  his  letters  to  that  ever-indulgent  father 
with  whom  he  was  so  much  more  intimate  than  with  the  mother 
he  always,  in  some  curious  and  unacknowledged  way,  felt  him- 
self unable  to  satisfy. 

*'  Dear  Dad,  do  you  mind  if  I  don't  come  for  a  few  days 
yet?  Marley  is  so  wonderful  just  now.  You  may  be  guessing 
why  I  can't  tear  myself  away ;  it's  not  because  I  don't  want  to 
be  with  you.  .  .  ." 

His  father  knew  more  about  him  and  Eunice  than  he  did 
himself,  although  they  had  hardly  spoken  of  it.  Desmond 
was  only  at  the  beginning  of  things,  inarticulate. 

"  Dear  laddie,  the  houri  before  the  horses  for  sure,"  Pat 
wrote  cheerfully,  "  and  haven't  I  been  there  myself  ?  "  Larry- 
told  Desmond  later  on  what  Lord  Grindelay  had  said  when 
the  letter  came. 

"  He  said  he  wasn't  forcin'  you  to  come  over,  although  you 
were  the  light  of  his  eyes,  much  more  to  him  than  you  iver 
was  to  your  foine  English  mother  who  had  Marley  and  the 
gurl  and  her  blarmed  orchids.'^ 

"  Please  yourself  when  you  come,"  wrote  his  father,  when 
again  Desmond  postponed  his  return.  "  I  can  guess  well 
enough  what's  keeping  you,  but  don't  let  it  be  too  long,  don't 
throw  me  over  altogether.  It's  longing  to  see  you  we  are  here, 
and  I've  a  hunter  ready  for  you  that  will  take  you  all  you 
know  to  get  over  the  fences.  He  is  too  much  for  me  alto- 
gether. .  .  ." 

Poor  Pat !  he  was  going  downhill  fast,  and  wanted  the  boy 


FULL  SWING  63 

badly,  but  when  Desmond  asked  permission  to  stay  away  he 
could  not  bear  to  say  "  no  "  to  him.    He,  too,  had  his  pride. 

Desmond  never  read  the  note  of  loneliness  in  the  letters, 
nor  dreamt  his  father  was  missing  him.  Desmond's  feelings 
were  deepening,  but  the  depths  were  only  in  one  direction. 
Three-fourths  of  him  were  still  schoolboy.  Yet  he  knew  in 
these  holidays  that  Eunice  was  not  his  sister,  and  that  when 
his  hands  touched  the  silk  of  her  hair,  or  she  put  her  sweet 
lips  to  his  for  the  good-night  kiae  as  she  had  done  all  her  life, 
his  heart  shook,  and  he  was  her  champion.  That  was  all  he 
thought,  that  he  must  defend  her,  not  yet  knowing  from  what, 
and  that  it  was  from  himself. 

This  afternoon,  as  they  had  driven  together  in  the  old- 
fashioned  family  barouche  to  Denham  Place,  he  sat  by  her 
side  hardly  speaking.  She  rallied  him  on  his  glumness,  and 
he  gave  her  the  first  reason  that  came  into  his  head.  How 
could  he  tell  her  what  he  hardly  knew  himself,  that  it  was 
because  she  was  sitting  so  near  to  him  and  his  blood  was 
rising? 

"It's  my  father  I  was  thinking  of,"  he  answered.  "I 
ought  to  be  in  Ireland  now.  He  wrote  I  was  to  take  my  own 
time,  but  he  expected  me  by  the  12th,  and  now  it's  the  20th. 
I  can't  think  what's  keeping  me  here." 

And  at  that  he  looked  shyly  at  her,  and  his  heart  pounded. 
She  was  quite  unconscious  of  it,  being  in  all  essentials  still  a 
child.     She  gave  his  arm  a  little  squeeze  and  said : 

"  Oh,  don't  go !  It's  so  lovely  to  have  you  here.  I  wish 
you  were  here  always." 

"  He  looks  forward  to  my  coming ;  there  are  few  friends 
of  his  own  age  and  standing  left  now." 

Presently  he  blundered  out  that  he  was  sorry  he  was  going 
away  from  her,  but  covered  it  up  with  more  talk  of  his  father; 
all  to  excuse  that  he  was  tongue-tied  because  he  was  sitting 
beside  her  and  she  looked  so  wonderful  in  her  white  dress  and 
hat  with  the  black  ribbon  and  pink  roses.  Her  hair  was  un- 
plaited  to-day,  and  the  scent  of  it  caught  his  breath. 

He  talked  about  his  father  to  cover  his  silences.  Although 
he  was  reluctant  to  leave  Marley  just  now,  it  was  not  for  lack 


64  FULL  SWING 

of  affection  toward  him.  The  drunken  old  reprobate,  so  un- 
fortunately mated,  had  won  more  love  from  his  son  than 
Agatha  had  up  to  the  present,  more  conscious  love,  at  any 
rate.  The  adventurousness  of  Lord  Grindelay's  spirit,  and 
his  sense  of  humour,  the  never-failing  indulgence,  had  won 
him  his  son  in  babyhood.  Marley  had  become  home  too, 
now,  and  about  his  mother  was  something  that,  up  to  late 
this  very  afternoon,  was  indefinitely,  if  reluctantly,  calling 
to  him.  But  he  did  not  care  for  her  as  he  did  for  the  old  red- 
faced  father  who  had  taught  him  to  ride  when  he  was  four 
years  old,  to  shoot  before  he  could  hardly  carry  a  gun;  who 
had  always  treated  him  like  a  man,  neither  watching  nor 
doubting  him ;  incapable  of  criticising,  but  not  of  hugging  him. 

Desmond  loved  his  father  with  something  of  pity  and 
something  of  understanding.  He  knew  he  drank;  if  there 
were  other  things  he  did  there  was  an  undefined  suspicion  in 
the  boy's  mind  that  the  marriage  of  which  he  was  the  issue 
might  have  been  responsible  for  some  of  them.  He  felt  the 
differences  between  his  parents ;  reproaching  himself  now  and 
again,  and  calling  himself  a  snob  because  he  liked  to  bring 
his  Eton  friends  to  Marley,  and  never  took  one  to  Languedoc, 
although  he  knew  their  welcome  would  be  warm.  He  could 
see,  even  if  it  were  dimly,  how  out  of  place  his  mother  must 
have  been  at  Languedoc.  But  he,  too,  was  sensitive  of  criti- 
cism about  it,  could  realise  his  father's  irritation  with  an 
English  wife  there,  seeing  the  unfriendliness  of  her  eyes  and 
all  their  cool  appraisement. 

That  afternoon,  at  Denham  Place,  Desmond  however  put 
all  such  thoughts  away  from  him.  They  had  helped  to  quiet 
his  heart  and  to  keep  him  from  telling  the  girl  anytliing  at 
all  of  the  sudden  wish  he  had  had  to  put  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  and  explain  to  her  what  had  come  over  liim. 

He  and  Eunice  carried  off  all  the  honours  of  the  tourna- 
ment that  afternoon.  Afterwards  they  had  a  gorgeous  tea, 
all  the  boy  and  girl  competitors  together,  chattering  like  mag- 
pies, with  their  young  dignity  gone  down  before  the  whole- 
some excitement  of  the  exercise.  When  he  and  Eunice  drove 
home  they  were  no  longer  alone;  they  had  Jack  Keid  and  the 


FULL  SWING  65 

Amhurst  boys  with  them,  and  Desmond's  mood  was  altogether 
different.  Jack  was  the  son  of  the  Great  Marley  doctor,  already 
at  Cambridge.  He  talked  animatedly  of  rowing,  and  what 
he  meant  to  do  later ;  of  Blues  and  bumps.  One  Campden  boy 
was  still  at  Eton,  the  other  was  at  Sandhurst  and  urging  Des- 
mond to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  They  were  all  full  of  the 
afternoon  match,  and  what  a  "fluke"  the  Marley  Court 
■victory  had  been.  Challenges  were  laughingly  exchanged,  and 
it  was  agreed  that  Jack  Reid  and  the  younger  Campden 
should  take  on  Eunice  and  Desmond  the  next  day  or  the  day 
after.  They  were  very  gay  and  happy.  There  was  nothing 
to  prepare  him  for  what  was  immediately  in  front. 

They  dropped  the  three  boys  at  Great  Marley.  At  the 
lodge  gates  of  the  Court  they  heard  that  Lady  Grindelay  had 
sent  out  a  message  that  they  were  not  to  loiter,  but  to  come 
straight  to  the  house.  They  had  a  habit  of  avoiding  the  long 
straight  drive,  and  strolling  home  through  the  woods.  They 
wondered  perfunctorily  what  was  up,  and  were  disappointed 
at  the  tame  end  to  their  afternoon.  Of  course,  they  had  meant 
to  walk.  Desmond,  when  they  drove  up  to  the  door,  got  out 
quickly. 

"  Tell  her  I'll  be  with  her  in  ten  minutes.  I  must  change. 
I  never  can  make  out  how  you  manage  to  keep  tidy,  whatever 
happens." 

"  I  don't  feel  tidy." 

Desmond,  once  difficult  to  persuade  to  common  cleanli- 
ness, was  now  very  particular  about  his  clothes,  and  had  a  deep 
interest  in  his  tailor  and  hosier  and  the  colour  of  his  ties. 

Eunice  did  not  wait  to  change,  but  went  straight  to  her 
aunt. 

"But  it  was  not  you  I  wanted,  it  was  Desmond,"  Lady 
Grindelay  exclaimed. 

"  You  often  want  Desmond  instead  of  me  now,  don't  you  ?  " 
Eunice  pouted.  She  needed  affection  as  flowers  need  water, 
and  bloomed  in  it. 

"Do  I ?  But  Desmond  is  my  son."  There  was  a  new 
thrill  in  the  word  as  she  said  it. 

"  Well,  I  am  your  daughter,  aren't  I  ?  "  She  threw  herself 
6 


66  FULL  SWING 

on  the  stool  beside  her,  fondling  her.  "  Desmond  will  be  here 
in  a  minute.  We've  had  a  perfectly  lovely  afternoon.  We 
won  the  tournament,  and  we've  each  got  a  new  racquet." 

She  poured  out  all  her  news.  Lady  Grindelay  listened, 
keeping  back  her  own.  She  liked  the  young  confidence,  was 
fond  of  the  child,  very  fond,  and  meant  to  do  well  by  her. 
It  had  been  gradually  and  imperceptibly  that  the  two  had 
changed  places.  Nobody  but  herself  knew,  and  she  only  half- 
consciously,  that  Desmond  was  now  in  the  foreground. 

"  Oh,  auntie,  how  I  wish  Desmond  need  never  go  away ! 
It's  so  different  when  he  is  here,  going  about  with  him  in- 
stead of  Miss  Stacey."  Miss  Stacey  was  Eunice's  governess; 
Eunice  was  a  better  pupil  than  her  mother  had  been,  but  little 
fonder  of  her  lessons.  "  AVe  do  have  such  lovely  times.  He 
was  talking  this  afternoon  of  going  to  Ireland  again.  Do  stop 
hSm—do!" 

Lady  Grindelay  answered  quickly: 

''  Many  more  impossible  things  have  happened  than  that 
Desmond  should  remain  here  altogether." 

"  Not  go  to  Languedoc  at  all !    But  how  ripping !  " 

"  I  would  like  you  to  avoid  the  habit  of  talking  slang." 

**  But  it  would  be  ripping,  wouldn't  it  ?  I  can't  think  of 
another  word.  Is  it  true,  is  it  really  true?  Needn't  he  go 
at  all?" 

Desmond's  entrance  interrupted  her  questions,  but  she  con- 
veyed the  news  to  him  instantly. 

"  You  are  to  stay  here." 

"What's  up?" 

Desmond  had  grown  more  in  height  than  in  muscle,  in 
grace  rather  than  strength.  He  was  a  handsome  boy  now,  with 
his  blue  eyes  alive  and  alert  under  his  dark  lashes,  and  any 
mother  might  have  been  proud  of  him.  Agatha  felt  a  thrill 
of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  he  had  become  wholly  hers. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What's  this  about  not  going  to  Lan- 
guedoc ?  "  He  looked  from  one  to  another.  "  Of  course  I'm 
going,  I  wrote  to  father  yesterday.  I  only  put  it  off  for  a 
week."  Now  he  forgot  what  had  detained  him,  and  thought 
of  nothing  but  Pat  waiting  for  him.    "  Is  he  angry  ?  " 


FULL  SWING  67 

"  No/'  she  answered  shortly,  with  a  swift  pang  of  jealousy, 
seeing  the  change  in  his  face,  his  anxiety. 

The  boy  was  quickly  apprehensive  of  disaster,  fearing  he 
knew  not  what.  Behind  that  low  forehead  where  the  dark 
hair  curled  crisply,  at  the  back  of  the  rebellious  turmoil  of  his 
childhood  and  the  athletic  prowess  of  his  youth,  lay  an  ever- 
acute,  if  hidden,  sen»itiveness.  Instinctively  he  braced  him- 
self. If  there  was  a  blow  coming  he  must  not  show  he  felt  it, 
not  to  his  mother,  anyway. 

"  Father  isn't  ill  ?  "  he  managed  to  ask. 

«  He  is  dead." 

Agatha  held  out  the  telegram.  In  justice  to  her  it  must  be 
said  she  never  believed  anybody  could  really  care  for  Pat 
Grindelay.  She  could  not  keep  the  note  of  satisfaction  from 
her  voice ;  she  said  it  as  one  who  said,  "  Now  you  are  free." 
But  Desmond  heard  the  words  as  a  wash  of  water  in  his  ears, 
felt  a  pain  as  of  drowning,  a  rush  of  feeling  so  strong  that  it 
nearly  swept  him  from  his  feet.  He  was  conscious  of  hating 
her  for  telling  him,  of  an  overwhelming  resentment  towards 
her.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  The  words  rushed 
about  his  ears  like  dead  wreckage;  he  felt  utterly  forlorn, 
drowning.  His  father  was  dead,  his  dear  father,  who'  loved 
him. 

Eunice  saw  the  dreadful  change  in  his  face.  She  was  by 
his  side  in  an  instant,  her  soft  hand  slid  into  his,  he  felt  the 
softness  of  the  hand  through  his  stunned  consciousness,  and 
kept  his  grip  upon  it.  Agatha  knew  that  she  had  given  her 
news  too  abruptly. 

"The  telegram  says  very  little.  Perhaps  you  would  like 
to  see  it." 

She  held  it  out  to  him,  but  he  made  no  movement  toward 
her.  He  was  thinking  that  he  hated  her  for  not  caring,  and 
that  he  would  never  forgive  her.  His  father !  He  was  swim- 
ming alone,  with  the  waters  rising,  dead  wreckage  beating 
about  him,  an  unbearable  pain  in  his  heart.  Eunice  kept  tight 
hold  of  his  hand ;  she  understood. 

*^  Poor  Desmond,  poor,  darling  Desmond !  "  Although  she 
had  never  seen  his  father,  and  knew  nothing  of  him  but  vaguely 


68  FULL  SWING 

that  he  had  made  auntie  unhappy,  her  S5Tnpathetic  tears  began 
to  fall.  "Don't  look  like  that;  we'll  comfort  you — auntie 
and  I."     Her  tears  fell,     "Won't  we,  auntie?" 

"  You  had  better  sit  down."  Agatha  paled  at  the  sight  of 
his  pale  face,  "  I  am  sorry  you  are  so  distressed,"  she  went  on 
compassionately,  "  We  shall  have  to  think  what  is  to  be  done. 
It  may  be  advisable  we  should  go  over." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  It  seemed  to  her  such  a 
good  thing  that  Lord  Grindelay  was  dead,  the  unhappiness  of 
her  son's  face  hurt  her, 

Desmond  did  not  sit  down;  he  stood  still  and  fought  for 
his  self-command. 

"  I  can  catch  the  night  mail,"  he  got  out  presently, 

"  To-morrow,  or  even  next  day,  will  be  time  enough.  I 
have  already  telegraphed  to  Andrew  McKay.  He  will  see 
that  proper  arrangements  are  made." 

Desmond  felt  very  cold,  and  physically  a  little  sick  as  he 
disengaged  his  hand  from  Eunice's,  The  sickness  was  of 
longing  for  his  father,  for  the  red  face  and  Irish  accent,  for 
the  warmth  of  his  greeting  and  the  hearty  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  Was  it  true  that  he  would  never  see  him  again? 
"Father! "  And  she  was  glad,  glad — he  saw  it  in  her  eyes. 
Resentment  swelled  in  his  swelling  heart,  and  pain  stifled  the 
sob  in  his  throat.  "  Father!  "  He  could  have  cried  the  word, 
and  for  all  the  remembered  kindness!  He  went  from  the 
room  quickly,  for  neither  of  them  must  see  his  eyes.  He  must 
see  his  father  once  again,  must  get  to  him,  and  to  the  warmth 
of  those  Irish  servants;  to  the  '^Is  it  yersilf  thin,  Mr.  Des^ 
mond  ?  "  of  Larry  and  the  rest ;  to  Biddy's  arms  and  sympathy, 
since  his  mother  could  only  look  wonderingly  at  him. 

He  was  upstairs  in  his  room,  flinging  his  possessions  to- 
gether, opening  disordered  drawers,  cramming  underclothes 
and  overclothes  into  one  distended  trunk,  seeing  nothing  for 
the  tears  that  were  falling,  before  Agatha  fully  realised  that 
he  was  suffering. 

"  Go  after  him !  "  she  said  to  Eunice.  "  I  did  not  think 
he  would  be  so  distressed." 

Eunice  was  quick  to  obey  her,  quick  to  understand.    After 


FULL  SWING  69 

all,  Lord  Grindelay  ivas  Desmond's  father,  although  he  wore 
a  white  hat  and  sometime8  drank  more  than  was  good  for  liim, 
and  kept  Desmond  from  them. 

"  He  was  dreadfully  upset." 

"I  am  afraid  I  broke  it  to  him  too  abruptly.  It  never 
struck  me  that  he  could  care." 

The  mistress  of  Marley  so  seldom  saw  there  were  two 
sides  to  any  question,  her  own  and  the  other  person's.  Of 
course,  she  had  not  wanted  to  wound  the  boy,  but  it  had  seemed 
so  wonderful  that  just  at  the  most  important  moment  of  his 
career  he  should  be  without  that  which  might  impede  it. 

"  Go  after  him ;  tell  him  I  am  sorr^^  I  broke  it  so  abruptly. 
Let  him  know  he  is  to  do  just  as  he  likes  about  going  over." 
Eunice  had  already  gone. 

But  Desmond  would  have  done  just  as  he  liked  without  his 
mother's  message.  And  that  was  to  get  to  Ireland  as  quickly 
as  train  and  steamer  would  carry  him,  with  or  without  her 
permission.  He  did  not  want  Eunice  to  comfort  him,  nor  that 
she  should  see  he  had  been  crying.  He  locked  his  door  against 
her,  commanded  his  voice  enough  to  call  out  to  her  that  she 
was  not  to  bother  him,  tKat  he  was  packing. 

"  Get  the  dog-cart  round !    Look  up  the  trains !  " 

"  Can't  I  help  you  pack  ?  "  she  asked  through  the  door. 
"  Let  me  in,  Desmond.    I  want  to  be  with  you.    I'm  so  sorry." 

"  I've  no  time  for  talking." 

And  no  inclination.  He  wanted  to  be  alone.  When  she 
came  back  to  tell  him  about  the  trains  he  still  did  not  unlock 
the  door.  She  had  to  call  out  to  him  through  it  that  he  would 
be  able  to  catch  a  train  for  London  in  time  for  the  Irish  mail 
if  he  could  be  ready  in  fifteen  minutes. 

"  All  right !  "  was  all  the  answer.  He  did  not  want  to  see 
anyone  with  tiiis  desolation  upon  him,  and  the  tears  he  could 
not  keep  from  falliug.  Why  had  he  lingered  on  here?  What 
he  wanted  to  do  now  was  to  get  out  of  the  house,  to  be  on  his 
way  to  Ireland,  that  no  one  should  speak  to  him. 

And  he  accomplished  it,  or  very  nearly.  Eunice,  lying  in 
wait,  gave  him  a  hurried  kiss,  and  whispered : 


70  FULL  SWING 

"  I'm  sorry  if  you're  sorry,  Desmond.  I  wish  I  were  com- 
ing with  you  to  help  and  comfort  you." 

His  mother  was  in  the  hall  when  he  went  through.  She 
knew  now  the  less  she  said  to  him  the  better.  The  dog-cart 
was  at  the  door. 

"  Put  my  bag  in  front." 

He  was  hurrying  through;  he  did  not  want  to  speak. 

"  You  will  need  money." 

He  had  not  given  it  a  thought.  It  flashed  through  her 
mind  then  that  in  some  ways  he  was  like  his  father,  and  the 
knowledge  was  like  a  flame  in  the  love  that  was  beginning  to 
bum  her.  But  for  her  forethought  he  would  have  gone  to 
Euston  without  the  means  to  go  farther. 

"It  is  all  I  have  in  the  house,  but  I  think  there  is 
enough." 

He  was  not  grateful ;  he  only  wanted  to  get  away  from  her 
and  that  she  should  not  see  his  red  eyes.    He  said  hastily : 

"  Thanks.     I  shall  have  to  drive  him  all  I  know." 

He  did  not  stay  to  say  good-bye  to  her  or  Eunice,  but  was 
out  of  the  door  and  in  the  dog-cart,  had  gathered  up  the 
reins  and  was  off,  before  it  seemed  possible. 


CHAPTER  VII 

It  was  'Andrew  McKay's  opinion,  expressed  in  a  carefully 
worded  letter  arriving  in  Marley  the  next  day  by  the  hand 
of  a  special  messenger,  that  Lady  Grindelay  should  go  over 
to  Ireland  for  her  husband's  funeral  and  be  present  at  the 
reading  of  the  will,  if  there  were  a  will — in  any  case,  be  on 
hand  to  assert  her  rights  to  the  guardianship,  not  only  of 
whatever  property  may  have  been  left  to  her  son,  but  of  that 
young  man  himself.  Andrew  McKay  offered  to  accompany 
her.  She  could  take  twenty-four  hours  to  make  up  her  mind, 
he  wrote,  or  even  more.  The  funeral  would  not  in  any  case 
be  before  Friday. 

The  messenger  who  brought  the  letter  was  his  own  son, 
young  Michael  McKay,  just  graduated  in  Edinburgh,  and 
already  in  his  f  atlier's  office. 

Lady  Grindelay  made  the  young  man  welcome,  but  took 
time  to  consider  the  unpalatable  advice  he  brought.  Mean- 
while Eunice  did  the  honours  of  the  house,  and  so  well  that 
young  Michael  thought  then,  and  never  ceased  to  think  in 
the  years  that  followed,  that  a  sweeter  chatelaine,  or  one  more 
fitted  for  the  post  she  occupied,  had  never  been.  She  took 
him  into  the  rose  garden,  and  where  the  cultivated  violets  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  sundial  among  the  old  lead  figures;  to  see 
the  new  puppies  and  Desmond's  black  mare.  Michael  had 
been  here  as  a  boy  with  his  father,  but  a  series  of  accidental 
circumstances  had  kept  him  away  during  the  last  three  or 
four  years.  Eunice  and  he  renewed  their  acquaintance  almost 
as  strangers. 

Eunice  understood  her  aunt  wanted  solitude  and  was  to 
be  relieved  of  the  young  man.  At  lunch  she  heard  he  was 
to  stay  the  night,  and  that  her  aunt  would  go  to  London 
with  him  in  the  morning.  A  telegram  had  already  been 
dispatched  to  his  father. 

After  lunch  she  took  him  on  the  river. 

71 


72  FULL  SWING- 

It  was  so  early  in  the  spring  that  they  had  the  river  to 
themselves.  In  many  places  it  had  overflowed  its  banks ;  here 
at  Marley  it  was  wide  and  full.  They  stood  and  watched  it 
together  a  little  while  when  they  came  back  from  their  row, 
and  Eimice  thought  of  Desmond,  and  what  a  dull  companion 
Michael  was  in  comparison.  Then  she  was  suddenly  filled 
with  compunction  lest  she  should  fail  in  kindness  towards 
her  guest.  There  was  a  climb  before  them,  and  a  long  walk 
to  the  house.  This  part  of  Marley  Wood  sloping  to  the  river 
was  far-lying. 

"  If  you  think  you  will  be  tired  we  can  telephone  from 
the  boat-house  to  the  stables.  Perhaps  we  had  better;  it  is 
getting  late." 

Michael  was  in  the  mood  to  accede  to  anything  she  pro- 
posed. They  waited  on  the  banks  for  the  carriage,  and  she 
tried  to  make  conversation  for  him. 

"  There  is  a  notice  up  about  picnic  parties  and  boats  not 
trespassing,  but  they  come  all  the  same  in  the  summer  and 
tie  up  under  the  trees.  I  think  it  is  nice  to  feel  we  are  giving 
people  shade  or  shelter.  I  want  auntie  to  take  down  the 
notices,  to  let  them  land,  and  spread  their  teas,  and  walk  in 
the  woods." 

"But  you  would  not  know  what  sort  of  people  might 
come,"  he  objected;  "people  from  the  East  End  of  London, 
trippers.  You  would  find  soiled  paper  lying  about,  and 
empty  bottles." 

"  I  don't  think  that  would  matter  at  all.  They  could  be 
cleared  away.  And  the  poorer  the  people  were,  or  the  smaller 
the  homes  they  came  from,  the  better  it  would  seem  to  them 
to  be  here." 

"  But  you  would  not  be  able  to  come  out  alone." 
"  I  never  do  come  here  alone  as  it  is.    When  Desmond  isn't 
here,  my  governess  comes  with  me,  or  auntie." 

It  seemed  to  him  very  fitting  she  should  be  so  well  chaper- 
oned and  guarded.  At  six  and  twenty,  Michael  was  something 
of  a  prig,  thinking  all  his  prejudices  were  principles.  A  tall 
and  well  set-up  young  man,  nevertheless,  whose  gravity  be- 
came him.     He  wore  an  eyeglass,  but  only  because  the  sight 


FULL  SWING  73 

of  one  eye  was  really  defective.  It  represented,  nevertheless, 
his  outlook  on  life.  It  was  all  in  tin  boxes  and  iron  safes, 
docketed  and  labelled. 

At  dinner-time,  however,  he  noticed  that  the  girl's  com- 
plexion looked  even  fairer  in  the  evening  than  by  daylight. 
He  saw  her  small  and  slender  hands,  her  instinctive  grace, 
the  sympathetic  way  she  looked  at  Lady  Grindelay.  The 
occasion  was  a  solemn  one,  or  at  least  serious;  the  note  of 
the  dinner-table  fitted  it,  being  subdued  and  quiet.  So  was 
all  the  service,  suiting  his  taste.  He  tried  to  remember  her 
age.  She  wore  her  hair  down,  but  surely  she  must  be  seven- 
teen. He  began  to  think  of  his  own  age,  and  of  all  the  exami- 
nations he  had  passed  so  brilliantly,  and  to  plume  himself 
on  his  LL.B.  and  gold  medal. 

He  had  not  intended  to  marry  until  he  was  at  least  thirty 
and  a  partner  in  the  firm.  But  when  he  went  to  bed  that 
night  he  reconsidered  the  question.  Twenty-seven  was  surely 
a  good  age  for  matrimony.  He  would  be  out  of  his  articles 
next  3'ear;  and  there  was  his  mother's  money  waiting  for  him. 
So  thinking,  he  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  Eunice;  the  first  of 
many  such  nights. 

He  escorted  Lady  Grindelay  to  London  next  morning. 
She  had  to  get  mourning,  prepare  for  the  ordeal  in  front  of 
her,  although  she  did  not  guess  what  an  ordeal  it  was  to  prove. 

"  Tell  your  father  I  will  meet  him  at  Euston.  He  is  not 
to  bother  about  me  until  then.    I  have  plenty  to  do." 

"  He  told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would  lunch  with  him  in 
the  City  or  at  home — I've  only  to  let  him  know.  Perhaps  you 
would  allow  me  to  give  you  lunch  at  my  club  ?  " 

"  I  should  prefer  not  to  make  any  appointments.  It  is 
very  kind  of  your  father,  and  of  you.  I  am  quite  all  right 
alone." 

"And  for  lunch?" 

"I  shall  get  something  to  eat  when  I  have  finished  my 
shopping.    There  are  plenty  of  places." 

"  Until  to-night,  then." 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  seeing  us  off." 

Lady  Grindelay  bought  mourning;  she  knew  what  was 


74  FULL  SWING 

the  right  thing  to  do.  She  might  feel  glad,  inexpressibly 
relieved,  but  she  must  not  show  it.  She  bought  a  widoVs 
bonnet  with  long  streamers,  white  lawn  collars,  cuffs  and 
caps.  Now  it  was  comparatively  easy  for  her  to  pay  respect 
to  her  husband's  memory.  Whilst  he  was  alive  respect  was 
impossible.  It  was  Andrew  McKay's  advice  that  slie  should 
go  to  Ireland  for  the  funeral,  but  it  accorded  with  her  own 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 

It  was  perhaps  unfortunate  that  his  advice  and  her  views 
were  the  same.  It  would  have  been  so  much  better  had  she 
stayed  at  Murley,  better  for  herself  as  well  as  for  Desmond 
if  she  had  never  attended  the  obsequies  of  that  deceased, 
somewhat  beloved,  but  never  respected  nobleman,  Patrick 
Canning  Warner  Foulds,  late  Lord  Grindelay. 

What  she  found  at  Languedoc  Castle,  besides  the  corpse — 
which  to  the  great  scandal  of  the  household  and  outdoor  ser- 
vants, and  the  tenantry  who  got  to  know  of  it,  she  never 
visited  at  all — was  very  much  what  she  had  left  in  high 
disgust  some  twenty  years  before.  Dirt,  disorder  and 
discomfort  beyond  the  telling.  Wild  trees  unpruned,  great 
hedges  undipped,  cattle  straying  up  to  the  very  door  where 
the  dilapidated  coach  and  odd  horses  drew  her  and  Andrew; 
fallen  masonry  outside,  and  inside,  bare  walls  and  oddly 
carpeted  floors,  upholstered  furniture  in  the  first  stage  of 
decay  and  carved  furniture  in  the  last  stage  of  ill-treatment, 
and  absence  of  baths  or  even  hot  water,  of  light  other  than 
guttering  candles,  of  servants  other  than  garrulous  or  sullen, 
of  service,  in  the  way  she  understood  the  word,  trained  and 
competent;  of  even  decency  in  a  house  of  mourning,  as 
decency  is  understood  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel. 

But  there  was  worse  than  that,  infinitely  worse,  that  neither 
she  nor  Andrew  had  anticipated. 

They  had  thought  to  be  met  by  the  new  Lord  Grindelay, 
by  Desmond.  Eton  and  Marley  must  have  acquainted  him 
with  the  proprieties.  She  anticipated,  and  Andrew  also,  that 
the  boy  would  stand  between  her  and  the  humours  or  ameni- 
ties of  this  out  of  date  Irish  household. 

But  neither  on  the  night  she  arrived  nor  the  next  morning 


FULL  SWING  75 

was  anything  to  be  seen  of  Desmond.  ''  Mr.  Desmond,  God 
bless  him,"  was  there,  so  she  was  told,  but  no  one  "  would  be 
for  fetchin'  him  from  his  father's  room."  "  It's  not  himself 
he  is  entoirely,"  was  a  euphemism  she  did  not  understand. 
She  was  outside  her  son's  mind,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
agony  of  self-reproach  that  had  accompanied  him  here, 
nothing  of  the  thirty-six  hours  he  had  spent  in  the  chamber 
of  Death,  almost  without  sleep,  listening  to  the  story  of  how 
his  father's  end  had  come  about.  He  was  young  and  impres- 
sionable, remorseful,  miserable.  She  thought  him  wanting 
in  respect,  affection,  because  he  neither  met  her  at  the  station 
nor  came  to  her  when  she  arrived.  She  was  hurt,  and  thought 
she  was  angry,  speaking  bitterly  of  him  to  Andrew  and  of  his 
father's  influence.  But  it  was  not  that  he  lacked  respect  or 
affection,  only  that  she  was  not  in  his  mind  at  all. 

His  father  had  asked  for  him  all  those  three  days  of  his 
illness;  he  could  have  been  there,  seen  him  once  more,  heard 
his  last  words.  But  he  had  stayed  away.  He  even  forgot  what 
had  detained  him,  and  could  remember  nothing  but  that  he 
had  been  thoughtless  and  selfish.  Biddy,  who  had  been  his 
own  nurse,  and  Larry,  who  was  Lord  Grindelay's  body- 
servant,  tried  to  console  him. 

"  An'  didn't  we  kape  tellin'  him  if  ye'd  only  known,  ye'd 
have  bin  over  any  minit,  an'  that  it  wasn't  you  didn't  care 
for  him  nor  the  want  of  the  warm  heart.  But  nothin'  served. 
I  saw  the  tears  row!  down  his  cheeks.    *  I  shan't  see  him  agin,' 

he  sed.     '  She's  got  him,  the ;  an'  she'll  kape  him,  bad 

cess  to  her.'  But  I  mustn't  tell  ye  the  words  he  put  to  yer 
lady  mother.  It  wasn't  him  that  was  mealy-mouthed,  as  you'll 
remimber.  *  She's  got  him  an'  she'll  kape  him,'  he  sed; 
*  there's  no  use  telegraphin'.  Though  me  eyes  are  achin'  for 
a  soight  of  his  face,  she'll  not  let  him  come.'  He  was  begin- 
ning his  dyin',  thin,  but  as  clear  in  his  mind  as  you  or  me. 
'  She'll  sind  it  up  to  the  law3^er'8  office,  an'  all  I'll  get  '11  be 
printin'  from  Andrew  McKay,  God  curse  him,'  he  said." 

"  You  might  have  wired." 

"  An'  so  I  might ;  ye're  right  there.  But  it  all  came  about 
so  quick,  an'  me  fingers  had  got  soddened  with  the  powltices. 


76  FULL  SWING 

The  bit  of  a  girl  at  the  post  office  would  maybe  have  written 
for  me,  but  I  was  hearin'  she  wasn't  there  any  more  by  ray  son 
of  them  havin'  got  a  bhoy  instid,  an  impident  bit  of  a  clerk. 
We  were  cheerin'  him  an'  tellin'  him  to  give  over  talkin'  and 
coughin',  an'  we'd  pull  liim  through,  an'  there'd  be  the  foine 
toimes  you  an'  he'd  be  afther  havin'  together  whin  ye  did 
come.  An'  whiniver  the  docthor  wint  away  we  jist  give  him 
the  whisky,  an'  hoped  for  the  best." 

And  then  Biddy  would  start  wailing,  and  Larry  would 
join  in,  so  that  Mr.  Desmond  would  not  know  what  a  sad 
best  it  was,  this  death  the  whisky  could  no  longer  keep  away. 

"  Shure  he  jist  hiccoughed  himsilf  into  hell — as  Father 
Malone  would  have  it,"  Larry  sobbed  at  the  end  of  the  telling ; 
*'  cursin'  your  mother,  an'  himsilf  because  he  was  gettin'  out 
of  the  way,  an'  she'd  have  ye  to  hersilf  whin  he  was  gone. 
He  knew  the  hatred  she  had  against  him,  the  foine,  liberal, 
noble  gintleman  that  he  was." 

The  boy  was  red-eyed  from  want  of  sleep,  from  crying, 
and  because  of  his  remorse. 

"  It  wasn't  she  that  kept  me ;  it  was  for  my  own  pleasure 
I  stayed  away."    But  they  did  not  believe  him. 

"  What  are  ye  afther  tellin'  us  ?  Don't  we  know  it's  here 
ye  had  the  foine  times?  At  the  very  last  his  moind  was 
wanderin'.  He  kep'  sayin'  she'd  turned  you  aginst  him,  an' 
that  you'd  grow  up  a  wather  dhrinker,  an'  not  be  able  to 
hould  yer  glass,  nor  tell  a  story,  nor  sing  a  song,  an'  that 
it  was  not  an  Irishman  ye'd  come  back  at  all,  at  all,  wid  no 
love  in  yer  heart  for  the  ould  place  nor  the  ould  ways.  But 
we  didn't  belave  him,  did  we,  Biddy  ?  We  kep'  tellin'  him  to 
have  done,  an'  givin'  him  the  whisky." 

But  Biddy  and  Larry  were  not  only  repeating  their  late 
master's  words.  With  national  craft  and  an  eye  to  the  future, 
they  poured  out  their  voluble  patriotism.  What  was  to  be- 
come of  them  all  if  it  were  true  that  the  new  Lord  Grind«l«.y 
was  taken  up  with  English  ways? 

Larry  and  Biddy  touched  all  the  chords  in  Desmond's 
sensitive  and  ravaged  heart,  found  where  he  was  tender,  and 
struck  the  tenderness  to  sound  as  if  it  had  been  a  harp  and 


FULL  SWING  77 

theirs  the  fingers  that  could  play  upon  it.  Desmond  spent  the 
first  night  here  on  his  knees  by  poor  Pat's  coffin;  he  hadn't 
to  hide  his  eyes  from  these  old  servants  nor  show  any  self- 
i^estraint.  Travel-stained,  exhausted  with  tears  and  remorse, 
truly  he  was  not  himself.  He  sobbed  that  he  was  an  Irishman, 
and  that  everything  for  which  his  father  cared  he  would  care 
for  too  and  preserve. 

"An'  God  bless  ye,  Mr.  Desmond — milord,  for  it's  a 
thrue  Foulds  ye  are  an'  yer  father's  son,  for  all  yer  foreign 
trainin'." 

Biddy  brought  him  the  food  that  choked  him  to  eat,  and, 
when  he  put  it  on  one  side,  coaxed  him  to  his  milk  and 
potheen  that  went  down  so  much  easier. 

«  «  «  «  « 

There  was  a  constant  coming  and  going  in  that  great  room 
where  the  coffin  stood  on  its  high  trestles,  the  old  servants 
keening  and  crying,  and  the  black  bottle  going  round.  A 
disgraceful  scene,  some  would  have  called  it ;  but  the  note  of 
grief  was  genuine,  and  the  boy  found  comfort  in  it.  His 
brain  grew  confused,  but  his  trouble  was  solaced.  Everybody 
here  loved  his  father.  He  could  not  face  his  mother's  indif- 
ference or  coldness.  Not  Just  yet.  He  had  not  been  with  his 
father  when  he  called  for  him,  but  he  would  stay  with  him  to 
the  end,  and  among  these  dear  familiar  people  who  were  keen- 
ing for  him. 

It  was  true  that  he  was  not  himself  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral.  Women  with  streaming  eyes  and  aprons  thrown  over 
their  heads,  men  in  scarecrow  clothes,  ragged  girls  and  boys, 
murmured  their  sympathy.  The  house  was  full  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  funeral,  when  his  mother  saw  him  for  the  first 
time.  He  had  been  beside  the  coffin  until  then,  in  the  darkened 
room. 

Lord  Grindelay  was  to  be  borne  to  his  last  resting  place 
by  none  but  those  who  loved  him.  There  were  more  than 
enough  to  be  found  in  Languedoc,  friends  and  neighbours. 
Desmond  was  to  walk  at  the  head  of  the  procession.  Lady 
Grindelay,  who  had  been  informed  but  not  consulted  as  to  the 


78  FULL  SWING 

arrangements,  was  impatient  of  it  all,  of  the  dreadful  memories 
that  came  to  her.  Time  had  obscured  them,  hut  now  they 
thronged  about  her  again.  Every  day  of  her  married  life 
here  her  sensitiveness  had  been  shocked,  her  taste  violated, 
her  traditions  outraged.  She  wanted  the  funeral  to  be  over, 
to  get  away,  to  take  Desmond  vrith  her,  and  forget  he  had  ever 
had  another  parent  than  herself.  In  the  future  there  would 
be  no  one  between  them. 

Desmond  was  not  in  the  great  hall  when,  in  her  conven- 
tional widow's  weeds,  she  came  down  from  her  bed-room. 
Andrew,  from  an  indistinguishable  crowd  of  people,  curious 
or  resentful,  came  forward  to  meet  her;  but  Desmond  was  not 
there.  The  hall  door  stood  open,  and  beyond  it,  in  the  driz- 
zling rain,  were  people  and  yet  more  people,  a  black  and 
moving  crowd.  She  could  see  the  coffin  and  clergy;  men  in 
high  hats,  women  with  aprons  over  their  heads,  everyone  but 
her  son. 

Andrew  offered  her  his  arm. 

"  Tliey  are  going  to  start." 

"  And  Desmond  ?  " 

"  Desmond  is  one  of  the  bearers.  I  haven't  been  able  to 
speak  to  him ;  he  is  out  there  with  the  others." 

She  went  on  Andrew's  arm  to  follow  the  procession  that 
had  already  been  formed.  But  it  was  not  until  they  were  half- 
way to  the  mausoleum  that  she  saw  Desmond. 

Could  that  be  Desmond?  Her  Desmond?  The  young 
Etonian  who  had  left  Marley  in  his  clothes  made  by  Brown, 
and  his  straw  hat  with  the  blue  and  black  ribbon?  He  was 
dressed  in  mourning,  shiny  and  ridiculous,  hastily  made  by 
the  village  tailor.  His  shoulder  supported  the  comer  of  the 
coffin;  he  looked  neither  to  left  nor  right,  plodding  on  with 
the  others. 

The  whole  scene  was  strange,  the  slow-moving  procession, 
the  shiny  black  hats  in  the  rain,  the  tramp  of  many  feet,  and 
the  voices  of  the  wailing  women.  It  seemed  endless  hours 
that  she  walked,  too,  her  hand  on  Andrew  McKay's  arm,  but 
never  speaking  to  him.  Alien  to  them  both  was  the  scene, 
the  prayers  and  the  wild  cries  when  the  coffin  was  placed  in 


FULL  SWING  79 

the  mausoleum,  the  funeral  service  sounding  strange  in  the 
brogue,  the  immediate  change  of  mood  when  it  was  all  over; 
the  almost  festive  air  of  the  now  straggling  multitude. 

"  Are  they  all  coming  back  vrith  us  ?  "  she  asked  Andrew 
in  dismay. 

"There  is  a  big  feast  spread  in  the  dining-room;  they 
seem  to  have  been  busy  at  it  for  days.  Many  of  the  neigh- 
bours come  from  a  long  distance,"  he  added  apologetically. 

"  You  know  I  have  not  seen  Desmond  since  I  have  been 
here.    He  has  never  been  near  me." 

'^He  is  surroimded  now  by  his  father's  friends  and  re- 
tainers." 

He  wanted  to  prepare  her.  But  no  preparation  could  dis- 
guise the  truth.  Andrew  had  seen  that  Desmond  stumbled 
as  he  walked,  the  coffin  resting  on  his  shoulder.  But  there 
were  nine  others  to  support  it,  and  Larry  was  by  the  side  of 
his  dead  master's  son.  Andrew  still  hoped  Agatha  had  seen 
nothing. 

Lady  Grindelay,  apart  from  the  mourners,  in  her  well- 
cut  black,  veil  down,  a  black-edged  handkerchief  in  her  hand, 
was  dry-eyed,  as  everyone  could  see.  There  was  a  feeling 
against  her  in  the  crowd  that  overflowed  the  grounds, 
although  it  was  kept  from  breaking  into  demonstration  by 
the  occasion.  But  here  a  word  and  there  a  word  escaped,  and 
they  were  loud  in  Desmond's  ears. 

"An'  he  might  have  bin  alive  if  she'd  had  the  warmth 
in  her  heart  to  warm  him." 

"  He  was  a  fine  jintleman,  an'  not  a  tear  in  her  eye  for 
him." 

Desmond  felt  that  which  kept  him  from  going  to  his 
mother,  although  he  was  in  no  condition  for  thinking.  Andrew 
went  to  him  when  they  got  back  to  the  house,  and  tried  to 
draw  him  apart. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  now  to  your  mother  ?  She  has 
gone  to  her  room." 

Larry  whispered,  "  She's  goin'  to  tell  ye  not  to  fret  for 
him." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you  sat  quietly  with  her 


80  FULL  SWING- 

for  a  little,  if  you  did  not  appear  in  the  dining-room." 
Andrew  had  not  guessed  Desmond  to  be  so  far  gone  as  now 
he  saw  him.    "  Will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  drunk  ?  "  said  Desmond  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly.  "  There  is  nothing  at  all  the  matter 
with  me."  He  pushed  away  Larry,  who  was  standing  close 
beside  him. 

"Be  aisy,  thin." 

Desmond  stood  upright,  but  lurched  and  laid  hold  of  him 
again.  "  I'm  not  drunk.  I've  had  no  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing."   He  was  defending  himself  stupidly. 

*'  I  am  sure  you  are  not  drunk." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  go  into  the  dining-room." 

"It's  not  in  respect  for  Ms  mimry  ye'U  be  wantin'," 
Larry  interrupted  admiringly. 

"  I'll  speak  to  my  mother  now."  His  condition  gave  him 
courage.  "  Wliere  is  she  ?  You  come  too,  Larry.  Of  course 
I'm  going  into  the  dining-room." 

Andrew  could  not  control,  he  could  only  follow,  him, 
hoping  to  soften  or  shorten  the  impending  scene. 

Lady  Grindelay  was  in  her  own  room,  and  now  he  was 
here  at  her  door.  She  saw  him,  where  so  often  his  father  had 
stood  to  laugh  at  or  insult  her.  Desmond  was  red-eyed,  dressed 
in  those  horrible  village-made  clothes,  his  hat  had  streamers. 
But  it  was  not  the  village-made  clothes  nor  the  streamers 
that  sent  that  hot  and  surging  anguish  through  her,  that 
shock  of  remembrance. 

"  Mother ! " 

His  voice  was  thick,  his  feet  unsteady  as  he  lurched  for- 
word  towards  her.  "  McKay  says  you  don't  want  me  to  dine 
with  my  father's  friends " 

"  I  never  said  so." 

"  You  need  not  put  out  your  hands  to  keep  me  off."  She 
had  not  done  so,  but  he  read  in  her  face,  for  all  he  saw  so 
unsteadily,  that  it  was  revulsion  he  roused  in  her.  He  was 
not  of  an  age,  nor  in  a  condition,  to  know  that  the  root  of 
the  revulsion  was  love — love,  sick  and  shaken  with  shame. 
Agatha  wanted  to  put  her  arms  about  him  and  hold  him, 


FULL  SWING  81 

hiding  him  from  all  the  world.     But  instead  of  him  it  was 
herself  she  hid. 

"  I'm  not  coming  near  you.  I  shall  pay  him  the  last 
respect." 

"Of  imitation ? "  she  said,  unhappily.  He  was  not  too 
far  gone  to  understand  her  meaning. 

"  You  think  I'm  drunk/'  he  answered  unsteadily. 

"  To  be  shure  an'  you're  not/'  said  Larry,  supporting  him. 
"  It's  the  throuble  he's  in,"  he  said  to  Agatha.  She  put  her 
hands  before  her  face.  No  one  could  guess  what  the  shock 
was  to  her,  seeing  him  like  this,  and  what  dreadful  memories 
were  evoked. 

But  the  difference  was  that  she  loved  this  slender,  swaying 
figure  and  the  thick  voice.  Her  conscience  seared  her  and 
told  her  all  the  fault  was  hers.  He  was  the  fruits  of  her 
incredible  marriage — like  this  from  no  fault  of  his  own. 
Love,  pity  and  remorse  overwhelmed  her,  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

Then  every'thing  he  had  heard  about  her  came  into  Des- 
mond's fuddled  mind,  and  he  forgot  how  differently  he  knew 
her.  There  came  upon  him  the  garrulity  and  loose  speech  of 
the  half-intoxicated,  denials,  excuses,  explanations,  and  even 
reproaches. 

"  You  never  understood  him.  There's  a  gulf  between  the 
English  and  the  Irish.  If  he  drank  it  was  out  of  the  light 
heart.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I'm  not  drunk,  what- 
ever you  may  think.  You  never  cared  for  him ;  he  often  told 
me  you'd  set  yourself  against  him."  In  the  loosened  speech 
were  tears.  "  I'll  be  lonely  in  the  world  without  him.  Didn't 
he  love  me  with  the  great  warm  heart  of  him,  and  never  a 
word  of  criticism?  I'm  not  clever  enough  for  you,  but  he 
didn't  care  what  I  did.  .  .  ." 

If  there  was  arraignment  there  was  also  appeal.  He  was 
lonely,  death  had  shaken  him.  The  mist  between  them, 
through  which  they  could  not  see  each  other's  face  or  heart, 
was  the  mist  of  tears.  Her  heart  was  crying  for  this  poor 
son,  and  yet  she  could  not  answer  him.  So  he  went  on,  mis- 
judging her. 
6 


82  FULL  SWING 

"  You  are  as  cold  as  ice  to  me/'  he  cried.  "  I'm  not  as 
bad  as  you  think ;  it's  only  because  I've  had  no  food.  If  you 
looked  at  him  like  you're  looking  at  me  now,  is  it  a  wonder 
he  was  unhappy,  and — and  bitter  ?  I've  had  no  sleep  since  I've 
been  here  for  hearing  him  calling  for  me,  while  only  the  ser- 
vants were  with  him  when  he  died.  What  are  you  looking  at 
me  for  ?  I've  seen  people  drunk,  so  you  needn't  think  I  don't 
know.    There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

"  I  have  not  said  you  are  drunk,"  she  faltered.  And  then, 
because  the  very  word  sickened  her  she  caught  at  her  mantle 
of  reserve  and  wrapped  herself  in  it.  ^'Will  you  go  now? 
You  would  be  better  alone,  perhaps.  .  .  ." 

He  resented  that,  and  poured  out  more  fiery  incoherent 
words,  under  which  she  grew  whiter,  but  less  able  to  reply. 
Larry  had  the  sense  to  see  the  scene  must  end,  and  led  or 
coaxed  him  away.  She  heard  him  talking  to  himself  as  he 
went  downstairs,  holding  to  the  stairs  and  saying  he  was  "  as 
right  as  rain — quite  all  right — but  the  stairs  were  so  un- 
even." She  would  have  held  him  in  her  arms  and  hidden  him, 
but  her  lack  of  love-words  came  between.  She  heard  after- 
wards of  his  condition  at  the  funeral  feast,  and  that  eventually 
he  was  helped  from  the  dining-room,  as  his  father  had  been  so 
many  times. 

In  the  morning,  recovered  and  miserably  conscious  of 
offence,  without  quite  remembering  its  heinousness,  Desmond 
sought  out  Andrew,  and  begged  him  to  tell  his  mother  how 
it  had  come  about,  to  plead  for  forgiveness  for  him.  That 
was  a  mistake.  He  ought  not  to  have  called  upon  anyone  for 
help,  but  have  thrown  himself  on  his  knees  before  her.  She 
would  have  lifted  him  up.  She  had  come  slowly  to  her  mother- 
hood, into  her  woman's  kingdom  of  pride  and  pain.  He  did 
not  know  she  was  there,  nor  what  her  reign  might  mean.  He 
was  half  afraid  of  her,  thinking  her  austere  and  rigid.  And 
so  he  made  his  submission  through  Andrew,  denying  her 
rights. 

She  answered  Andrew  coldly,  covering  up  her  heart.  And 
Andrew  urged  her,  knowing  no  better. 

"  Have  a  little  tolerance,  hear  at  least  what  he  has  to  say 


FULL  SWING  83 

in  excuse.  These  young  things,  they  bear  pain  so  badly !  He 
is  only  a  boy;  not  the  first  boy  who  has  taken  more  than  is 
good  for  him.  Don't  set  up  an  impossible  standard  and  expect 
him  to  conform  to  it.  These  Irish  servants  of  his  have  been 
plying  him  with  whisky  and  milk  and  tales.  He  should  have 
been  here  on  the  12th.'  He  is  unhappy  at  having  lingered  at 
Marley." 

So  Andrew  pleaded,  and  tactlessly  added:  "And  in  his 
case,  of  course,  there  is  hereditary  disposition  to  overcome. 
You  ought  to  make  allowance  for  him,  Agatha.  You  make 
mistakes  yourself." 

"  At  least  I  never  get  drunk ! "  she  was  goaded  into  retort- 
ing. And  because  he  was  pleading  for  her  son,  for  whom 
no  plea  was  needed,  she  put  up  her  shield  so  that  neither 
Desmond  nor  Andrew  could  seQ  what  lay  behind  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

When  Lady  Grindelay  went  back  to  Marley,  Desmond  re- 
mained at  Languedoc.  Andrew  thought  it  was  better  so 
under  the  circumstances.  He  misread  Agatha's  silence,  and 
thought  she  would  be  more  likely  to  forgive  the  boy  if  there 
was  a  temporary  separation  between  them.  He  came  late  to 
a  real  understanding  of  her  feeling  for  Desmond,  which  is 
perhaps  not  surprising. 

At  Languedoc,  his  father's  friends  attentive,  and  the  old 
servants  solicitous,  Desmond's  thoughts  followed  his  mother 
to  Marley,  and  he  wondered  miserably  what  she  would  tell 
Eunice.  He  had  said  unforgivable  and  unforgettable  things 
to  her;  he  had  been  drunk  at  his  father's  funeral.  He  dwelt 
upon  the  condition  of  affairs  between  her  and  his  father,  and 
told  himself  wretchedly  that  because  of  it  she  had  never  cared 
for  him.  In  a  way  his  feeling  for  her  had  been  growing  with 
his  years  no  less  than  hers  for  him.  But  he  had  never  known 
it  until  now.  He  did  not  want  forgiveness  from  her;  he 
wanted  love,  comprehension;  he  felt  very  lonely  and  aban- 
doned, and  cried  often  for  poor  Pat.  He  could  not  take  con- 
solation from  the  attentions  and  solicitousness  that  were  shown 
by  those  around  him,  because  he  was  conscious  of  disloyalty 
to  them,  and  to  Languedoc. 

In  sight  of  the  mountains  and  sea,  the  coastline,  jutting 
headland  and  weathered  rocks,  the  great  sweeps  of  dark  moor- 
land, he  had  an  unspeakable  longing  for  the  green  woods  of 
Marley  and  the  grey  house  upon  the  hill,  for  the  murmuring 
sedges  where  the  river  washed  the  banks,  the  velvet  lawns  and 
cut  yew  trees. 

Eunice  could  not  guess  why  Desmond  lingered  in  Ireland. 
She  wrote : 

"Why  are  you  staying  away?  Marley  isn't  Marley 
without  you.  I'm  sure  auntie  wants  you  back  as  much  as 
I  do,  although  she  hasn't  said  anything.     She  isn't  as  in- 

84 


FULL  SWING  85 

terested  in  me  or  my  lessons  as  usual;  whenever  I  speak 
to  her  she  seems  to  be  thinking  of  something  else,  but  not 
something  nice.  I  believe  she  is  unhappy.  If  you  have 
quarrelled  "with  her,  do  come  home  and  make  it  up,  or 
write  her  a  loving  letter.  Whatever  it  is,  if  you  say  you 
are  sorry  she  won't  think  anything  more  about  it.  She 
is  always  like  that,  you  know;  she  never  holds  things 
over  us." 

There  followed  a  page  about  matters  that  were  full  of 
interest  to  them  both,  of  the  dell  with  a  trickle  of  water  in  it 
that  tasted  as  if  it  came  from  the  sea,  of  a  fox's  lair  that  was 
a  secret  from  all  the  world. 

"  I  went  on  the  river  with  Michael  McKay  yesterday, 
Uncle  Andrew's  son.  He's  got  a  glass  in  his  eye  that  he 
used  not  to  have  when  he  was  here  before.  But  I  like  him 
all  the  same.  You  haven't  quarrelled  with  me,  so  mind 
you  answer  m}"-  letter.  I'm  longing  to  hear  from  you. 
Never  mind  about  the  spelling" — (for  it  was  one  of  the 
jokes  between  them  that  Desmond  was  ever  a  bad  corre- 
spondent because  of  this).  "  I  promise  you  not  to  notice 
if  you  put  '  beleive '  instead  of  '  believe.'  Dear  Desmon<i, 
I  do  long  for  you  so." 

And  he  ?    Was  he  not  longing  for  her  ? 

"  My  mother  doesn't  want  me  at  Marley,  or  I'd  come  like 
a  shot,"  he  replied,  when  he  could  bring  himself  to  reply 
at  all. 

Eunice  showed  the  letter  to  Lady  Grindelay.  Agatha  said 
at  first  that  she  did  not  want  to  read  it ;  that  to  show  another 
person's  letter  was  a  breach  of  confidence. 

"At  least  his  spelling  has  improved,"  she  said  noncha- 
lantly, when  she  handed  it  back.  But  Eunice  noted  her 
expression,  and  went  on: 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  it's  my  birthday  next  week  ?  " 

"No;  I  have  not  forgotten,"  Lady  Grindelay  answered. 
But  she  had.  The  girl's  place  with  her  had  altered  since  her 
return  from  Ireland.     She  had  to  consider  her,  to  consider 


86  FULL  SWING 

her  above  all  things,  because  she  was  a  sacred  and  precious 
trust.  But  now  she  resented  it,  she  could  no  longer  think 
of  Eunice  and  Desmond  together,  her  scheme  must  be  aban- 
doned. She  had  to  guard  the  girl,  protect  her,  give  her  to  no 
young  drunkard,  however  dear. 

"  Auntie !  "  The  ready  arms  were  about  her,  the  coaxing 
voice  in  her  ear.  "  May  Desmond  come  for  my  birthday  ? 
Desmond  has  been  here  so  many  of  my  birthdays." 

"  I  have  not  told  him  to  stay  away." 

"He  says  he'll  come  like  a  shot  if  you  want  him.  He 
thinks  you  don't  want  him.  He  always  thinks  you  don't  care 
about  him  like  you  do  about  me.    Desmond  is  so  sensitive." 

"  He  might  have  written  to  me  himself." 

"  He's  so  afraid  of  his  spelling.  And  it's  just  the  same 
if  he  writes  to  me ;  he  knew  I  should  show  you  his  letter." 

"  I  will  think  it  over." 

But  she  had  thought  of  little  else  since  she  had  left  Ireland,' 
and  how  to  save  him.  Her  conscience  was  as  troublesome  at 
sixty  as  it  had  been  at  sixteen.  Why  had  she  not  warned  him, 
spoken  openly  to  him,  and  thought  not  of  her  own  humilia- 
tion, but  only  of  his  good. 

"  Write  to  him,  then,"  she  said  suddenly.  "'  Tell  him  about 
your  birthday,  and  that — that  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him." 

Eunice  hugged  her  and  ran  off  to  do  it,  lest  her  aunt  should 
change  her  mind. 

He  must  come  back;  some  occupation  must  be  found  for 
him,  some  way  of  strengthening  him.  It  had  been  planned 
that  he  was  to  go  to  Oxford  when  he  left  Eton,  but  now  Agatha 
was  doubtful  if  the  Oxford  atmosphere  would  not  prove  too 
enervating.  Perhaps  she  should  keep  him  under  her  own 
eye.  But  when  she  thought  of  that,  she  rejected  it  at  once, 
because  that  was  what  she  would  have  liked  best. 

Of  one  thing,  however,  she  was  quite  certain.  The  very 
pain  the  certainty  gave  her,  proved  the  necessity.  Any  talk 
or  thought  of  love-making  between  the  two  of  them,  between 
Eunice  and  her  poor  boy  must  be  abandoned.  Monica's  child 
must  not  suffer  as  she  had  done — must  not  be  sacrificed. 

In  order  that  she  should  not  weaken  about  this,  for  she 


FULL  SWING  8? 

had  it  in  her  mind  that  she  could  refuse  him  nothing  for 
which  he  might  plead,  she  spoke  to  Andrew.  Eunice  was  on 
the  river  with  Michael ;  yesterday,  too,  had  been  spent  in  the 
same  way. 

What  she  said  to  Andrew  made  his  response  easy. 

"  She  is  too  young  to  be  talking  or  thinking  of  marriage." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  should  like  to  feel  that  her  future  is 
secure." 

"  There  is  no  hurry,  surely.    She  is  barely  seventeen." 

They  were  in  the  library  as  they  had  been  nearly  thirty 
years  ago,  and  again  fourteen  years  later.  The  lawyer  could 
forget  neither  occasion.  He  walked  towards  the  window, 
looked  out  on  the  fair  and  lovely  prospect,  the  rolling  lawns 
and  the  great  woods  that  stretched  to  the  river.  He  could 
not  command  himself  to  forget. 

"  He  said  half  a  word  to  me.  It  had  better  stop  now  if 
it  has  to  stop.    I  thought  you  had  other  views  for  her." 

"  If  I  had,  I  have  them  no  longer." 

He  wheeled  round  swiftly. 

"Why?  You  don't  mean  because  of  what  happened  in 
Languedoc  you  would  not  give  her  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  hold  her  in  trust." 

"  You  never  change  from  these  quick  decisions,  from  being 
impulsive.    There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  the  boy." 

"Eunice  must  take  no  risks,"  she  said  dully.  He  could 
see  she  had  been  suffering,  and  forbore  to  argue  with  her. 
He  had  accepted  her  view  of  the  late  Irish  peer,  and  perhaps 
not  unnaturally  agreed  with  her  as  the  possibility  of  Desmond 
inheriting  his  proclivities. 

And,  then,  there  was  nothing  he  wished  more  than  that 
Michael  should  woo  and  wed  Agatha's  niece.  Having  missed 
his  own  happiness  in  life,  he  was  anxious  Michael  should  not 
do  the  same.    He  knew  already  how  it  was  with  Michael. 

"  You  won't  change  your  mind  again  ?  "  he  asked  Agatha. 

"  No." 

"  Michael  is  reliable,  steady,  straightforward." 

There  was  more  said  between  them,  a  great  deal  more, 
but  on  the  same  lines.    Such  a  marriage  would  heal  any  old 


88  FULL  SWING 

soreness  between  her  and  Andrew;  there  should  never  have 
been  any  between  them.  She  knew  her  folly  by  now,  and 
that  if  she  had  to  marry  any  one,  he  should  have  been  the  man. 
"  I  believe  in  young  marriages,"  said  Andrew,  when  the 
preliminaries  had  been  arranged. 

"  I  do  not  see  anything  for  which  they  need  wait,"  answered 
Agatha,  thinking  only  of  Desmond,  and  that  she  could  devote 
herself  entirely  to  him  when  she  had  no  one  else. 

Andrew  sounded  a  note  of  warning,  but  when  had  she 
listened  to  Andrew?  If  she  gave  up  her  dream,  and  suffered 
in  its  relinquishment,  did  not  that  prove  she  was  right?  And 
Andrew  sounded  his  warning  note  but  softly.  He,  too,  thought 
it  would  be  for  the  girl's  happiness.  Michael  was  such  a 
good  fellow,  so  steady. 

No  grass  was  allowed  to  grow  under  their  feet.  Before 
Desmond  came  back— tacitly  between  Andrew  and  Agatha, 
openly  between  Michael  and  his  father,  but  with  few  words 
as  became  them  both — it  was  understood  that  Michael  had 
the  freedom  to  woo,  that  his  suit  met  with  the  approval  of 
the  elders.  He  knew  nothing  about  the  plan  that  had  been 
before;  nothing  about  what  had  been  destined  for  Desmond, 
Poor  Michael !  He  conducted  liis  wooing  with  such  cir- 
cumspection, was  so  considerate  of  her  tender  years  that 
Eunice  never  even  guessed  the  meaning  of  his  tortuous 
speeches,  never  looked  upon  him  as  anything  but  a  young 
man  with  dull,  admiring  sisters  who  bored  her  by  singing 
his  praises  whenever  they  came  to  Marley  or  she  went  to 
Campden  Hill. 

Her  heart  was  full  of  Desmond's  coming,  humming  within 
her  like  a  bee  honey-laden.  There  was  a  little  awkwardness  the 
first  evening  of  his  arrival. 

Eunice  heard  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  coming  back 
from  the  station,  and  rushed  out  impetuously  into  the  hall. 
She  flung  herself  into  his  arms,  kissing  him,  exclaiming: 

"  Oh,  Desmond !    I'm  so  glad  you've  come.    Oh,  Desmond, 

you've  grown,  and  I  think  you're  more  handsome  than  ever." 

Desmond  returned  her  kiss  warmly,  and  then  was  startled 

at  what  came  over  him,  and  had  not  recovered  when  she  led 


FULL  SWING  89 

him  into  the  dining-room.  He  was  travel-stained,  and  felt 
himself  at  a  disadvantage.  The  table  "was  spread  with  flowers 
and  silver  and  glass;  Michael's  sisters  were  in  white  shim- 
mering evening  dresses;  Michael,  tall  and  correct,  with  stiff 
white  shirt  and  eyeglass.  His  mother  would  think  him  half 
a  savage  to  be  coming  among  them  like  this;  he  could  not 
meet  her  eye — stammering  out  his  excuses. 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat." 

For  they  would  have  made  way  for  him.  He  did  not 
know  whether  to  kiss  his  mother  or  not.  She  was  at  the  end 
of  the  table.  She  had  risen  agitatedly  when  she  heard  him 
in  the  hall,  but  had  resumed  her  seat  before  he  came  in. 

"  Here  he  is,  auntie.  Hasn't  he  grown  ?  I  do  believe  he's 
got  a  moustache  coming !  " 

Agatha  was  not  thinking  of  the  things  her  son  suspected, 
only  of  the  emotion  his  coming  gave  her,  and  that  she  must 
not  betray  it. 

"  John  will  bring  back  the  soup.  "We  have  only  just  be- 
gun." She  gave  him  no  formal  greeting,  and  spoke  as  if 
nothing  had  been  between  them. 

"  I  can't  sit  down  like  this." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  Eunice  interposed  quickly.  "  You 
look  as  well  as  anything.  None  of  us  mind.  Auntie  ordered 
whitebait  because  she  knew  you  liked  it.  We  talked  over  the 
menu  ever  so  long  this  morning.  Don't  let  everything  get 
spoilt." 

"  I  hope  you  still  like  whitebait  ?  "  Lady  Grindelay  said. 

He  saw  she  meant  kindness,  and  took  the  indicated  place, 
ate  with  them,  talked  of  the  journey.  The  sense  of  home- 
coming was  strong  upon  him  as  the  evening  wore  on,  and  an 
intimate  pleasure  in  it  swelled  in  his  voice  as  he  talked. 

He  had  not  kissed  his  mother  before  the  McKays,  and  the 
servants  in  the  dining-room,  in  front  of  everybody.  But  he 
lingered  in  the  drawing-room  until  all  had  gone  to  bed  but 
the  two  of  them.    When  Lady  Grindelay  got  up  and  said : 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  be  following  our  guests,"  he  seized 
the  opportunity — shame-faced,  nervous. 


90  FULL  SWING 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  letting  me  come  back,"  he 

began. 

She  was  ever  inarticulate  in  emotion,  and  hurried  her 

answer. 

"  It  is  Eunice's  birthday  to-morrow.  You  have  been  here 
for  nearly  all  her  birthdays.  You  will  have  to  go  up  for  your 
examination  next  week.    You  had  no  books  with  you." 

No  maid  with  her  lover  could  have  been  more  shy  than 
Agatha  with  her  son.  She  wished  that  he  would  kiss  her, 
but  gave  him  no  opportunity. 

Desmond  felt  a  little  hurt,  thrown  back  upon  himself. 

"  Good-night,  then,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"  Good  night,"  she  answered.  There  was  not  even  a  kiss 
between  them.  He  had  been  full  of  penitence  and  gratitude 
to  her  for  letting  him  come  here,  of  pleasure  at  being  home 
again.  But  now  he  felt  something  of  reaction,  and  thought  of 
his  father,  to  whom  she  must  many  times  have  been  cold  like 
this.  He  never  guessed  that  she  was  more  glad  than  he  in 
his  home-coming,  half  ashamed  of  what  she  only  half  realised, 
young  passion  in  an  old  heart,  a  dry  old  heart  that  had  not 
known  it  before.  So  few  sons  know  how  their  mothers  love 
them.  And  this  one  less  than  any  other,  because  of  the  cir- 
cumstances that  had  kept  them  apart. 

Perhaps  naturally,  it  was  not  of  his  mother  Desmond 
thought  when  he  went  to  bed  without  kissing  her,  but  of 
Eunice.  She  had  greeted  him  as  a  sister,  warmly,  lovingly; 
she  had  not  omitted  to  kiss  him.  "  But  she  isn't  my  sister, 
and  thank  God  for  that! "  was  his  last  waking  thought.  He 
was  very  happy. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  Eunice  hung  about  him,  told 
him  everything  that  had  happened  during  his  absence,  even 
about  the  Orchid  and  a  belated  spike. 

"  Auntie  is  sure  it's  going  to  flower  now.  Sanders  says 
'  it's  wakin'  up  to  its  work.'  Jack  Eeid  is  coming  over  this 
afternoon.  Michael's  sisters,  and  me,  and  the  two  Campden 
boys  make  five ;  there's  you  and  Michael,  Billy  Norland,  and 
two  boys  from  the  vicarage.    Can't  we  have  a  tournament  on 


FULL  SWING  91 

Saturday,  Desmond,  like  we  had  at  Denham  ?  We've  only  got 
a  few  more.    Isn't  it  lucky  we've  got  an  asphalt  court  ?  " 

"Billy"  Norland  was  the  Eev.  William  Norland,  curate, 
supposed  to  be  casting  sheep's  eyes  at  one  of  the  McKays. 
Eunice  told  Desmond  about  it.  To  her  it  did  not  appear 
romantic  or  sentimental ;  it  was  only  funny.  She  was  younger 
even  than  her  years,  and  less  developed. 

"We  are  going  to  have  a  picnic  to-morrow;  that's  what 
I  chose  for  my  birthday,  although  Auntie  said  no  one  had 
ever  heard  of  a  picnic  in  March.  We  are  going  to  have  it  in 
the  woods — our  woods ;  but  we  could  have  the  tournament  on 
Saturday.  The  McKays  are  staying  till  Monday.  After  that, 
Desmond,  after  that  we'll  go  together  to  all  our  old  places." 

She  hung  about  him,  talked,  made  plans.  But,  except  on 
that  first  evening,  she  had  not  kissed  him.  There  was  no 
reason  why  she  should  not,  no  reason  in  her  own  mind.  Per- 
haps Desmond  thought  he  was  too  old  for  kissing.  She  had 
instincts,  although  she  was  without  reason.  She  was  satisfied 
to  have  him  there. 

The  house  was  full  of  guests  those  few  days;  luncheon 
parties,  dinner  parties,  continual  games.  Lady  Grindelay 
wished  to  put  off  for  the  present  the  talk  she  thought  inevit- 
able between  herself  and  her  son.  He  was  never  out  of  her 
mind. 

He  was  anxious  to  propitiate  her,  intermittently  attentive. 
But,  of  course,  she  was  not  his  first  interest,  if  he  was  hers. 
She  would  not  have  believed  it  if  she  had  been  told  she  was 
jealous  of  the  girl's  place  with  him.  She  thought  she  was  only 
intent  on  carrying  out  what  she  had  decided  was  her  duty  and 
inevitable,  fulfilling  her  trust. 

"  You  must  not  neglect  your  other  guests  for  Desmond," 
she  told  Eunice.  "  Desmond  is  at  home  here."  Eunice  had 
come  into  her  room  before  she  was  up,  to  ask  if  she  and  Des- 
mond could  go  on  the  river  before  breakfast. 

"  If  you  do  go,  take  Michael  with  you.  Michael  is  fond 
of  rowing."    This  was  on  Saturday. 

They  did  not  go,  for  the  presence  of  Michael  would  have 
spoiled  everything.    They  would  wait  until  Monday,  until  he 


93  FULL  SWING 

■went  away  again.  Eunice  and  Desmond  liked  best  to  be  alone. 
Eunice,  at  least,  had  always  knoMoi  that.  Yet  those  seventeen 
years,  all  warm  and  sunlit,  had  been  so  guarded  that  there 
■were  no  seeds  so"wn,  and  none  could  sprout,  of  comprehension 
of  that  -which  "was  so  near  her,  making  every  day  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  last. 

The  full  days  fled.  The  picnic  was  a  success.  The  tennis 
tournament  took  place..  Michael  and  Madge  Eeid  "won  it. 
Desmond  had  never  played  so  badly. 

"  You're  out  of  practice,"  Eunice  said  to  him  consolingly. 
Desmond  knew  better,  but  he  -was  in  no  mood  to  question  -why 
it  -was  he  missed  ball  after  ball,  -why  his  muscles  were  relaxed 
and  he  -wanted  to  dream,  not  to  play  games. 

On  Monday  the  McKays  -were  to  go.  Lady  Grindelay,  at 
the  last  moment,  suggested  Michael  should  prolong  his  holi- 
day. Andrew  must  go,  the  office  called  liim,  he  could  not  be 
alone  in  that  big  house  in  Campden  Hill.  The  girls  had  their 
various  avocations,  their  housekeeping,  sewing  classes,  -what 
not.  But  Michael,  conscientious  Michael,  -who  had  so  few 
holidays,  could  surely  prolong  this  one.  Never  had  there  been 
a  March  so  like  May,  one  could  see  a  misty  veil  of  green  already 
on  the  trees. 

Michael  -would  not  stay,  -would  not  neglect  his  father  or 
his  -work,  but  said  that  if  Lady  Grindelay  permitted  he  -would 
come  up  and  do-wn  daily.  It  was  only  an  hour  from  to-wn, 
the  trains  "were  good. 

Michael  -was  satisfied  that  his  wooing  progressed,  although 
he  felt  the  time  -was  not  ripe  for  speaking.  Perhaps  it  would 
ripen  -when  the  spring  ■was  fully  here.  He  never  thought  of 
Desmond  as  a  rival,  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  Eunice's 
young  brother.  Desmond  -was  not  yet  twenty,  and  had  not 
started  on  a  career.  In  Michael's  well-ordered  mind  these 
were  sufficient  reasons  to  deter  him  from  thinking  of  love  or 
marriage. 

Michael  "went  regularly  up  to  to"wn,  and  Desmond  and 
Eunice  spent  the  lengthening  days  together.  They  -wanted 
nothing  more  than  to  be  left  alone.  Desmond  ■was  alive, 
although  timid,  to  -what  it  meant — this  happiness  in  being 


FULL  SWING  93 

together  with  Eunice.  She  believed  it  was  just  as  it  had 
always  been,  no  different.  She  had  never  had  a  companion 
who  could  compare  with  Desmond.  He  was  quieter  than  he 
used  to  be ;  she  liked  being  with  him  even  more. 

Again  they  sat  on  the  mossy  ground,  under  the  spreading 
branches  of  some  old  tree,  bird-haunted  in  the  summer,  bare 
now,  but  familiar.  Again  she  went  with  him  on  the  river, 
one  day  even  as  far  as  the  raits  at  Dawney.  It  was  holiday 
tixae  at  Eton,  and  the  shouting  boys  in  their  shorts  were 
absent,  but  the  atmosphere  remained  and  reminded  him.  He 
\isited  all  the  Eton  tradesmen,  gave  liberal  orders,  was  quite 
a  boy  that  afternoon. 

They  resented  the  evenings  when  Michael  followed  them 
to  the  billiard-room,  or  sat  with  them  in  the  conservatory; 
the  week-ends,  when  he  was  with  them  all  the  time. 

"  He's  so  much  nearer  auntie's  age.  I  wonder  he  doesn't 
keep  more  with  her,"  Eunice  complained.  Michael  was 
twenty-eight !  But  they  were  well-bred  young  people,  good- 
natured,  and  sorry  for  him  because  his  life  could  not  be  passed 
like  theirs. 

"  I  wonder  he  can  stand  being  in  a  stuffy  office  ten  months 
out  of  every  twelve.  I  should  think  he'd  get  blue  mould  on 
him.    But  I  suppose  he  likes  it." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  it  to  please  his  father,"  she  suggested. 

"  I'd  as  soon  be  an  undertaker  as  a  lawyer." 

**  You !  But  you're  so  different,  Desmond.  I  think  we 
ought  to  be  very  nice  to  him,  to  try  and  make  things  up  to 
him." 

"  So  we  are.  Aren't  I  teaching  him  to  row,  although  he 
has  no  more  muscle  than  a  tadpole." 

"  You  will  go  on  being  nice  to  him  ?  " 

''  Of  course  I  will,  if  you  want  me  to,  although  he's  a 
nuisance." 

That  was  what  Desmond  said  at  first,  until  he  saw  why 
Michael  came. 

"  He  is  so  pleased  always  to  be  here,  and  he  says  such 
nice  things  to  me." 

"What  sort  of  things?" 


94  FULL  SWING 

"  Things  out  of  books,  and  that  I'm  like  a  flower." 

"  He  has  sense  enough  to  see  that." 

Their  eyes  met;  she  coloured,  but  did  not  know  why,  and 
laughed  for  the  same  reason.  That  was  when  Desmond  began 
to  suspect  why  Michael  came  so  often. 

Michael,  liking  to  be  with  them,  meaning  to  fall  in  with 
their  ways,  wishing  to  be  as  light  as  they,  although  natural 
gaiety  was  foreign  to  his  temperament,  let  Desmond  teach  him 
to  feather  his  oars,  bend  his  knees,  throw  back  his  shoulders, 
while  Eunice  instructed  him  in  wood  lore.  Michael,  most 
estimable  of  young  men,  tall  and  stiff  and  a  little  Scotch,  with 
his  eyeglass  and  unblemished  record,  his  high  degree  and 
medal,  was  not  a  good  wooer,  could  not  have  been,  or  Eunice 
would  surely  have  perceived  his  intentions.  She  classed  him 
with  the  Odontoglossum  and  other  things  that  interested 
her  aunt. 

It  was  not  until  she  and  Desmond  quarrelled  about  him, 
until  she  had  to  defend  him,  that  she  really  began  to  think 
about  him  at  all,  and  then  it  was  in  anything  but  the  way 
he  would  have  wished. 

"  He  says  the  same  things  over  and  over  again,"  she  told 
Desmond.    *'  When  he  said : 

*  Even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  tea' 

this  aitemoon,  I  nearly  laughed.  He  said  it  last  Saturday 
and  the  Saturday  before." 

"  Couldn't  he  see  we  don't  want  him  ?  I  wonder  how  long 
he  is  going  to  come  up  and  down.  Why  doesn't  he  stick  to  the 
office?"  Desmond  asked,  forgetting  but  a  few  days  ago  he 
had  been  sympathetic  with  Michael's  mode  of  life,  willing  to 
lighten  it  for  him.    Eunice  reminded  him : 

"But  it  must  be  so  wonderful  for  him  to  be  here  after 
sitting  in  an  office  all  day.  We've  got  to  remember  that,  to 
go  on  making  it  as  pleasant  as  possible." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  sat  in  an  office  unless  he 
wanted.  He  has  always  been  a  sap.  And  he  is  so  cursed 
polite." 


FULL  SWING  95 

"  Well,  you're  not,"  she  answered  merrily.  They  were  on 
the  river  together,  and  there  were  hours  before  Michael  would 
appear  again.  "You  were  very  short  with  him  yesterday, 
and  said  he  would  never  be  anything  of  an  oar." 

"  Why  should  I  be  polite  to  him  ?  It  isn't  me  he  wants 
to  be  with ;  it's  you." 

She  laughed,  a  young,  incredulous  laugh. 

"  He  likes  to  be  with  us  both,  it's  because  we  are  gayer 
than  he  is.  It  doesn't  matter  which  of  us  it  is,  as  long  as  he 
hasn't  to  discuss  orchids  or  the  village  schools,  or  the  new 
drainage,  with  auntie." 

She  believed  every  word  she  said.  A  few  days  later  Des- 
mond broke  out  again: 

"  Why  does  he  call  you  my  '  sister '  ?  It's  cheek  of  him." 
He  mimicked  the  words.  '  Perhaps  your  sister  will  do  me  the 
honour  to  play  with  me  next  Saturday  instead  of  with  you? 
Miss  Reid,  I  am  sure,  will  be  proud  of  your  partnership.' 
What  does  he  mean  by  interfering?  We'll  play  the  same 
match  or  not  at  all." 

"  It  would  make  a  better  game  if  I  played  with  Michael. 
You  are  so  out  of  form,  and  I  was  never  very  good." 

Desmond  argued  the  matter,  spoke  insultingly  of  Michael, 
called  him  a  Cockney,  alluded  to  his  tactlessness.  "  Shoving 
himself  where  he  wasn't  wanted."  Eunice  defended  him 
wonderingly.  It  was  strange  for  Desmond  to  be  ill-tempered 
with  her. 

The  match  was  played  as  Michael  proposed.  Desmond 
recovered  his  form  on  that  occasion,  and  Mary  Eeid  played 
up  to  him.  \  They  won  easily.  After  it  was  over,  Desmond 
said,  rather  more  exultantly  than  the  occasion  demanded : 

"  You  didn't  do  so  well  without  me,  after  all,  did  you  ? 
It  wasn't  such  a  walk-over  for  you  and  McKay.  You'd  better 
stick  to  me  another  time  if  you  want  to  win." 

Michael  answered  for  her,  answered  quickly  • 

"I  am  sure  your  sister — I  am  sure  Miss  Eunice  doesn't 
mind  being  beaten." 

"  Can't  she  speak  for  herself  ?  " 


96  FULL  SWING 


"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Desmond  ?  "  Eunice  asked. 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me."    He  spoke  furiously. 

Michael  put  in  another  word,  intended  to  be  conciliatory. 
Desmond  replied  intemperately,  and  they  all  decided  he  was 
better  left  alone. 

"We'll  play  the  final  another  day,"  Michael  said  sooth- 
ingly, as  Desmond  left  the  court.  But  Eunice  went  after  him, 
slipping  an  arm  into  his. 

"  Why  are  you  so  cross,  Desmond  ?  I  didn't  do  it  on  pur- 
pose. Did  you  think  I  wanted  you  to  win  ?  I  really  did  play 
my  best." 

"  What  does  he  mean  by  calling  you  my  sister  ?  "  Desmond 
answered  savagely.  "What  does  he  mean  by  telling  me 
whether  you  care  or  not  about  being  beaten?  Don't  I  know 
you  better  than  he  does  ?  Why  is  he  always  interfering  between 
us?" 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  call  me  your  sister  ?  " 

"  He's  trying  to  make  up  to  you,  bringing  you  boxes  of 
sweets,  books  you  don't  read '' 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  really  I  do,  some  of  them." 

"  When  mother  insists." 

"  Auntie  never  insists,"  she  answered  quickly. 

"  I  believe  she's  throwing  you  at  the  fellow's  head." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

But  he  had  no  explanation  ready,  and  was  sullen  half 
the  day  and  during  Sunday,  until  Michael  went  away  on 
Monday  morning  in  fact. 

The  next  evening  he  began  again  on  the  same  subject.  It 
was  wet.  Michael  had  telegraphed  that  business  detained  him 
in  town,  and  they  had  the  billiard-room  to  themselves.  They 
were  not  playing,  because  whilst  Desmond  had  been  away 
things  had  got  into  disorder,  and  he  had  all  the  cues  to  mend, 
the  tops  had  dropped  off  many  of  them.  They  had  been  talk- 
ing of  the  cues.  Without  anything  to  lead  up  to  the  subject 
he  began  again  about  Michael. 

"  I  believe  he  does  it  on  purpose.  '  Your  sister  and  your 
sister  and  your  sister.'  He  knows  we're  only  cousins.  Hardly 
that,  for  your  mother  was  only  my  mother's  stepsister." 


FULL  SWING  97 

"  Does  it  matter  ? "  she  asked  wonderingly.  "  We've 
always  been  the  same." 

"But  we  are  not  brother  and  sister,"  he  said  doggedly, 
not  meeting  her  eyes,  going  on  with  the  cues.  "  Where's  the 
glue?  I  wish  you'd  pass  it  me.  It's  in  the  fireplace."  She 
brought  it  over  to  him,  remaining  by  his  side. 

"We  are  practically  no  relations." 

"  It's  just  the  same."    She  came  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  It  isn't." 

"  I  couldn't  be  fonder  of  you  if  I  were  your  real  sister." 
She  was  holding  the  glue-pot,  but  found  her  heart  beating 
more  quickly  than  usual. 

"  Are  you  fonder  of  me  than  you  are  of  Michael  McKay  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  care  if  I  never  saw  Michael  McKay  again. 
Go  on  with  the  cue.  Why  are  you  stopping  ?  It  wants  holding 
down — pressing." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  humour  for  it,  I'm  sick  of  it.  I  suppose 
he'll  be  coming  down  again  to-morrow — standing  between 
us."  He  spoke  gloomily,  and  she  answered  quickly,  her  cheeks 
flushing. 

"  As  if  anything  could  come  between  us." 

"  You  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do."  He  meant  to  have  gone  on,  to  have 
asked  her  how  much  better  she  liked  him  than  she  did 
Michael.  But  now,  as  once  or  twice  before,  he  became  tongue- 
tied  by  her  nearness ;  his  beating  heart  stopped  his  words ;  he 
could  not  bear  her  so  near  Mm. 

"  As  if  we  could  ever  like  anybody  better  than  we  do  each 
other ! "  she  said.  And  then  an  extraordinary  silence  fell 
between  them ;  she  felt  her  cheeks  burning. 

"Let's  go  out  on  the  terrace;  it's  left  off  raining."  She 
wanted  the  darkness  of  the  terrace  that  he  should  not  notice 
her  cheeks  burning  or  her  voice  trembling.  Neither  of  them 
was  ready  for  that  whicfi  was  so  near  them.  It  was  quite  in 
his  accustomed  manner  he  said : 

'^All  right.  Just  wait  until  I  put  these  things  away  to 
dry.    I'll  have  another  go  at  them  the  next  wet  day." 


CHAPTEE  IX 

Nothing  in  nature  stands  still,  least  of  all  young  love  between 
a  girl  and  a  boy. 

Lady  Grindelay  knew  so  many  things — rose  and  orcMd 
culture,  drainage,  what  standard  a  little  girl  of  seven  should 
have  attained,  and  that  she  should  wear  her  hair  in  a  neat 
plait;  knew  about  silos,  Berkshire  pigs  and  Aldemey  cows. 
She  prided  herself  upon  the  variety  of  her  interests,  upon 
keeping  abreast  with  the  times,  sympathising  with  the 
Women's  Movement,  still  in  its  infancy,  trying  to  understand 
Socialism  and  the  trend  of  politics.  The  only  thing  completely 
hidden  from  her  was  the  human  heart,  even  her  own.  A 
misgiving  she  may  have  had,  but  now  that  she  had  decided 
Eunice  should  marry  Michael,  she  would  not  allow  herself 
to  dwell  upon  it.  Eunice  was  one  of  those  girls  for  whom 
marriage  was  indicated.  Why,  then  she  should  marry 
Andrew's  son,  and  the  sooner  the  better.  A  sexless  woman 
lives  in  a  perpetual  twilight,  with  no  dawn  of  roseate  sun  to 
lighten  it.  Love!  The  word  was  even  strange  on  her  lips. 
She  was  not  prudish,  only  ignorant,  with  a  sense  lacking. 

Eunice  should  marry,  since  she  already  showed  an  inclina- 
tion for  it.  But  not  Desmond.  Agatha's  conscience  held  the 
reins  of  her  intelligence  and  drove  her  unceasingly.  Day 
and  night  she  thought  of  her  son,  and  of  what  she  could  do 
to  cure  him  of  the  desire  for  strong  drink.  Her  tenderness 
tunnelled  deep,  until  all  the  foundations  of  her  strength 
were  shaken — shaken,  but  still  standing.  He  must  be  dis-' 
ciplined,  strengthened,  helped.  It  was  the  task  for  a  mother, 
not  for  a  gentle  girl  like  Eunice,  Eunice  was  to  be  guarded 
from  trouble. 

Lady  Grindelay,  planning  for  both  of  them,  abandoning 
what  had  been  her  dearest  wish,  and  without  a  doubt  that  she 
was  doing  right,  never  saw  that  this  early  spring  was  different 
from  all  the  springs  of  Desmond's  and  Eunice's  childhood. 
The  woods  held  their  secret^  the  sap  rising  in  the  pines 

98 


FULL  SWING  99 

scented  their  path,  the  chaffinch  sang-  early  on  the  elm,  the 
blackbird  on  the  thorn,  the  March  winds  blew  as  softly  as  if 
it  were  May,  and  all  for  them. 

Michael  came  steadily  wooing,  and  everybody  knew  it  but 
the  subject  of  his  attentions. 

Lady  Grrindelay  was  without  a  doubt  that  as  she  and 
Andrew  had  settled  it  so  it  would  come  about.  Her  feeling 
towards  the  girl  had  ebbed  a  little,  leaving  dry  places,  Michael 
would  be  kind  to  her;  his  character  was  steady,  his  principles 
were  high;  he  was  the  husband  she  needed.  Lady  Grindelay 
planned  in  her  twilight.  What  was  between  Desmond  and 
Eunice  grew  in  the  sunshine  under  budding  leaves,  or  where 
the  river  washed  the  banks  among  the  reeds. 

There  came  a  day  when  it  broke  into  words,  an  eventful 
day ;  but  it  was  Lady  Grindelay  who  hastened  the  speaking. 

Desmond,  because  as  yet  nothing  different  had  been  de- 
cided, went  as  arranged  to  Oxford  for  his  examination.  He 
was  away  only  the  inside  of  a  week,  but  he  grudged  the  time, 
grudged  every  minute  he  was  not  feeling  the  pulsing  strength 
of  his  growing  manhood,  the  love  that  was  not  part,  but  the 
whole  of  it.  Because  his  heart  was  so  full — not,  as  the  exam- 
iners thought,  because  his  mind  was  so  empty — he  failed  to 
pass,  to  answer  the  questions  put  to  him,  to  concentrate  on 
them.    He  was  ploughed  for  his  "  Little  Go." 

The  news  came  to  him  at  breakfast.  He  opened  the  letter, 
exclaimed  at  its  contents,  put  it  at  the  side  of  his  plate,  went 
on  eating.  Eunice  wondered  a  little  at  the  way  Desmond 
took  the  news,  admiring  him  for  his  calnmess.  Lady  Grinde- 
lay said  nothing. 

"  After  all,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  cared  much  about 
Oxford,"  he  said  carelessly.  "  Pass  the  marmalade,  Eunice. 
It's  not  as  if  I  was  going  into  a  profession.  I  don't  see 
what  I  should  have  done  there." 

Lady  Grindelay  got  up  from  the  breakfast-table  without 
comment.  She  was  not  entirely  unprepared  for  what  had 
happened. 


100  FULL  SWING 

Later  on  Eunice  found  her  in  the  drawing-room,  engaged 
in  needlework. 

"  I'm  going  into  the  town,  auntie.  Desmond  wants  some 
fishing-lines.  We  are  going  to  row  down  and  have  the  car- 
riage to  meet  us  at  the  lock.  Is  there  any  shopping  you 
want  done  ?  " 

Lady  Grindelay  was  sitting  at  her  frame.  The  Wansteads 
had  all  been  famous  for  their  embroideries,  and  Lady  Grin- 
delay,  notwithstanding  her  many  interests  and  occupations, 
had  always  found  time  to  exercise  her  gifts  of  even  stitch  and 
unbroken  patience.  It  was  her  answer  to  Tolstoi's  ^^what  is 
Art  ?  " — ^the  expression  of  her  limited  lyricism.  Perhaps  the 
happiest  hours  of  Agatha's  life  had  been  spent  translating 
rare  orchids  in  water-colours,  and  thence  to  silk  or  satin  by 
orderly  stitch, 

Eunice  repeated  her  question. 

"  Didn't  you  say  you  wanted  another  skein  or  two  of  the 
yellow?"  She  was  interested  in  her  aunt's  work,  and  bent 
over  the  frame.  She,  too,  worked  sometimes,  copying  needle- 
work pictures,  keeping  up  the  traditions  of  the  house.  "  It  is 
getting  on  wonderfully.    You  ought  to  show  it  to  Sanders." 

"  It "  was  a  mauve  and  yellow  orchid  with  a  purple  lip, 
and  they  spoke  about  the  needed  silks  for  a  few  moments. 
Lady  Grindelay  made  a  French  knot  or  two,  put  her  head  on 
one  side  and  examined  the  effect.    Then  she  said : 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  Desmond  before  you  go.  You 
are  not  in  any  immediate  hurry,  are  you  ?  " 

Eunice  hesitated. 

Lady  Grindelay  laid  out  her  silks  in  order,  straightening 
the  skeins. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  Desmond,  are  you  ?  "  She  hesi- 
tated, but  went  on :  "  It  wasn't  Desmond's  fault ;  he  couldn't 
help  it.  He  would  have  passed  all  right  if  he  had  gone  up 
before  he  left  Eton." 

"  It  is  quite  possible." 

"  Are  you  going  to  say  anything  to  him  ?  "  She  made  a 
tentative  effort  to  help  with  the  sorting.  "  You  are  short  of 
the  darkest  purple,  too." 


FULL  SWING  101 

"  I  want  to  know  what  he  is  going  to  do,  what  are  his 
plans." 

Desmond,  following  the  girl  into  the  room,  for  he  could 
not  bear  just  now  that  she  should  be  out  of  his  sight,  answered 
for  himself  lightly : 

"  My  plans  are  to  get  down  to  the  boat  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible.   As  it  is,  we  shall  hardly  get  back  in  time  for  lunch." 

"  I  should  like  a  few  words  with  you,"  His  mother  was 
still  handling  the  silks. 

"  Won't  it  do  after  lunch  ?    It's  getting  so  late." 

"  Just  as  you  please ;  but  perhaps " 

They  did  not  allow  her  to  finish  her  sentence;  they  were 
off  before  she  found  the  shade  of  purple  of  which  she  needed 
another  skein. 

"  All  right,  then.    Come  on,  Eunice." 

Eunice  bade  her  a  hasty  good-bye,  and  went  so  quickly  at 
Desmond's  impatient  bidding  that  she  forgot  the  pattern 
altogether. 

"  We  won't  be  late,"  she  called  back  from  the  door.  "  I'll 
make  him  hurry." 

Lady  Grindelay  disliked  unpunctuality,  as  she  did  any 
other  form  of  disorder.  The  years  had  fixed  her  in  her  old- 
maidish  habits. 

All  the  morning  she  spent  by  herself,  embroidering,  going 
over  the  lines  of  that  conversation  she  must  have  with  her 
son.  Some  occupation  must  be  found  for  him,  and  he  would 
have  to  be  persuaded  to  it.  One  in  which  there  were  few  or  no 
temptations.  In  none  of  the  professions  was  teetotalism  a 
qualification.  But  she  racked  her  brains  to  think  of  one  in 
which  strong  drink  would  be  contra-indicted.  There  was 
the  Church.  But  she  could  not  picture  Desmond  in  canon- 
icals. All  the  time  she  was  considering  the  Bar,  the  Church, 
farming  in  Canada,  or  representing  his  county  in  Parlia- 
ment, at  the  back  of  her  mind  was  the  knowledge  that  there 
was  only  one  profession  for  such  as  he.  All  the  time,  too, 
her  heart  contracted,  and  she  feared  that  to  which  she  must 
persuade  him.  He  must  be  a  soldier,  disciplining  himself 
first,  then  others.    But  what  she  wanted  was  to  keep  him  near 


102  FULL  SWING 

her.  Because  she  wanted  it  she  must  not  do  it.  Perhaps  in 
the  years  to  come,  the  far-distant  years.  .  .  .  She  pictured 
him  disciplined,  and  even  distinguished,  returning  to  Marley. 
Then  she  would  walk  proudly,  holding  on  to  his  arm.  She 
habitually  forgot  her  age,  feeling  still  young  and  vigorous, 
as  if  her  days  would  never  end. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  Desmond,  as  arranged,  came  in  to 
talk  to  her,  she  had  it  all  fully  planned.  He  suggested 
lightly  that  Eunice  should  Join  their  conference,  but  Lady 
Grindelay  decided  otherwise. 

"  Michael  will  be  down  at  five.  Eunice  can  go  in  the  car- 
liage  to  meet  him.  You  might  go  a  little  earlier,  and  get  me 
the  silk  you  forgot  this  morning,"  she  said  to  the  girl.  It  did 
not  seem  suitable  she  should  stay  while  Desmond's  future  was 
being  discussed ;  it  was  better  she  should  go  to  meet  her  own. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  forgot  the  silk."  Eunice  Avas  really  con- 
trite, anxious  to  make  amends  for  her  forgetfulness.  "  If  I 
go  now  there  will  still  be  light  enough." 

"  We  shan't  be  very  long  over  our  talk,  shall  we  ?  "  Des- 
mond asked.  "  She  can  wait,  can't  she,  and  then  I  can  drive 
in  with  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  she  had  better  delay ;  the  dusk  falls  early." 

"  Of  course  I  won't  wait  for  Desmond.  It  was  horrid  of 
me  to  forget  it  this  morning.    I'll  go  now." 

But  when  she  had  left  them,  Lady  Grindelay  seemed  in 
no  haste  to  speak.  Desmond  watched  his  mother  for  a  few 
minutes,  wondering  about  her.  Agatha  retained  her  figure, 
she  had  grown  old  in  the  way  trees  grow,  was  mature  and 
without  a  sign  of  decay.  Her  hair  was  grey,  but  it  was  a  wiry 
and  vigorous  grey;  although  there  were  fine  lines  about  her 
eyes,  the  eyes  were  still  young.  Mothers  and  sons  should  not 
wonder  about  each  other;  they  should  know.  Desmond  knew 
little  of  his  mother,  except  that  she  was  for  ever  surprising 
him,  and,  he  thought,  perhaps  criticising  him.  She  had  never, 
for  instance,  said  one  word  to  him  about  his  behaviour  at 
Languedoc.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  understood.  She  had 
always  been  generous  to  him,  never  nagged  him,  like  other 
fellows'  mothers,  but  then  she  had  never — — 


FULL  SWING  103 

Desmond  actually  flushed  when  he  thought  how  different 
other  fellows'  mothers  were  from  his.  Lady  John,  for  in- 
stance, rumpled  up  Edric's  hair  and  scolded  him,  kissed  him 
before  everyone.  Jeffrey  Campden  thought  nothing  of  putting 
his  arm  round  his  mother's  waist  or  about  her  shoulders,  and 
anyone  could  see  how  well  she  liked  it.  Mrs.  Reid  never 
talked  of  anyone  else  but  Jack,  and  all  the  examinations  he 
passed,  what  his  tutors  wrote  about  him.  She  cackled  about 
him,  Desmond  thought,  like  a  hen  with  one  chicken.  Up  at 
the  parsonage,  too,  where  many  of  the  children  were  still 
small,  Mrs.  Montgomery  was  never  without  one  clinging  to 
her  skirt  or  in  her  arms.  When  the  big  ones  came  back  from 
school  ot  university,  she  could  not  make  enough  of  them. 
Of  course,  he  knew  how  superior  Lady  Grindelay  was  to 
Lady  Campden,  or  Mrs.  Eeid,  or  Mrs.  Montgomery.  Still, 
there  were  times  when  what  a  fellow  wants  from  his  mother 
is  not  superiority.  Then  he  had  one  sickening  moment  of 
remembrance  and  longing  for  his  father,  for  poor  old  drunken 
Pat  and  his  ready  sympathy.  Before  it  had  died  away  he 
began  to  speak  hurriedly. 

Agatha  was  still  embroidering.  She  drew  a  long  thread 
through  the  taut  silk  on  the  frame,  and  held  her  needle 
poised  again  whilst  she  listened.  Her  own  opening  she  had 
not  yet  decided  upon. 

"  Mother,  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me.  But  there  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  get  in  first.  I  suppose  you  are  sick  over  this 
exam.?  It  was  only  because  I  got  thinking  of  something 
else.  .  .  ." 

She  laid  down  her  needle,  and  looked  up  at  him.  His  face 
had  grown  thin  and  the  light  in  his  blue  eyes  was  restless; 
his  colour  came  and  went.  All  of  a  sudden  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  tell  her,  if  he  could  get  it  out,  to  ask  her  sym- 
pathy, show  her  what  was  in  his  heart.  After  all,  she  was 
his  mother.  Somewhere  out  of  sight  and  deep  down  he  had 
an  idea  she  was  but  unlike  those  other  mothers  on  the  surface. 
He  was  her  only  son. 

"  After  all,  you  know,  I  don't  really  want  to  go  to  Oxford. 


104  FULL  SWING 

What's  the  good  of  attending  lectures  and  all  the  rest  of 
it  ?  "    He  spoke  a  little  nervously. 

"No?"  she  said  inquiringly,  "No?  Then  what  is  it 
you  wish  to  do?  That  is  what  I  detained  you  to  ask.  It  is 
time  we  spoke  of  it.  But  you  are  beforehand  with  me.  Tell 
me  what  you  have  in  your  mind." 

Thinking  she  understood,  would  meet  him  half-way,  he 
said  boldly : 

"  I  want  to  stay  on  here." 

She  smiled. 

"  And  that  is  what  I,  too,  should  like  best."  He  returned 
her  smile.  "  But  is  it  best  for  you  ?  That  is  what  we  have  to 
think.  Your  education  still  incom]3lete,  no  definite  occupa- 
tion. .  .  ." 

"  Couldn't  I  look  after  the  estate,  hunt  and  shoot,  do  what 
other  fellows  in  my  position  do,  even  if  it  is  a  little  earlier  ?  " 

"  But  you  are  not  quite  like  other  fellows."  Her  sigh  was 
involuntary.    He  paid  no  heed  to  it, 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.    Because  I've  got  a  title ^" 

*'I  was  not  thinking  of  your  title."  She  was  astonished 
that  he  should  think  of  that.  To  her  it  seemed  that  to  be 
Lord  Grindelay  was  so  much  less  than  to  be  a  Wanstead, 
Squire  of  Marley. 

"  Mother ! " 

He  stammered,  stopped,  and  she  looked  at  him  in  sur- 
prise, then  dropped  her  eyes,  for  she  thought  he  was  going 
to  say  something  of  what  was  between  them,  of  his  sottish 
father  and  his  own  weakness.  When  the  words  came  from 
him  they  came  like  a  torrent,  but  not  at  all  what  she  ex- 
pected. At  first  she  could  hardly  gather  what  he  was  saying, 
he  spoke  so  quickly. 

"I  want  to  stay  here  and  marry  Eunice.  I  know  I'm 
young  and  all  that.  I  don't  mean  at  once.  But  other  men 
are  after  her,  I  can't  be  forestalled.  There's  Michael,  now, 
Michael  McKay.  He's  fooling  about,  and  it's  easy  to  see 
what  he  wants.  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it."  He  spoke  with 
a  kind  of  furious,  agitated  heat,  went  on  pouring  out  his 
grievance  and  his  desire. 


FULL  SWING  105 

"It  isn't  as  if  she's  even  grown  up.  It's  not  the  right 
thing  to  do ;  it's  a  rotten  shame.  I've  never  said  a  word  to  her 
myself.  He  makes  eyes  at  her,  pays  her  compliments,  says 
she's  like  a  flower."  The  fluctuating  colour  now  burned  more 
steadily.     "  It  isn't  fair ;  it's  beastly.     I  want  him  to  know ; 

I  want  you  to  tell  him  that  Eunice  and  I — Eunice  and  I " 

He  ran  short  of  words,  his  eyes  pleading  and  bright,  his  heart 
knocking. 

"  Eunice  and  you  ?  "  She  repeated  the  words  after  him 
almost  mechanically.  "  Eunice  and  you !  But  that  is  im- 
possible.   I  dare  not  .  .  .  you  must  not  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  I've  got  to  wait.  I  haven't  said  anything  to  her, 
but  no  one  else  must  interfere  between  us.  What's  he  hang- 
ing about  for,  if  it  isn't  that?  You  see  for  yourself  I  can't 
go  to  Oxford,  or  leave  her,  whilst  he's  hanging  about." 

She  tried  to  thread  her  silk,  although  her  hands  were 
shaking. 

"  You  think  I'm  too  young  ?  " 

"  No,  it  was  not  that."  Her  tongue  was  dry,  she  had  not 
thought  it  would  be  necessary  to  explain  tilings  to  him. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  " 

*'You  are  so  untried.  .  .  ."  She  could  not  hurt  him  or 
speak  more  freely.     "  Perhaps  if  I  had  known  of  this  wish 

of  yours  before "    She  hesitated,  the  truth  was  impossible 

of  utterance.    "  Now  I  have  given  my  promise  to  Michael." 

"  To  Michael  McKay  ?  "  he  replied  incredulously. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  suppose  you  never  thought  of  me  at  all  ? "  he  said 
furiously.    "  I  suppose  I  don't  count  ?  " 

She  could  not  bear  to  feel  his  young  fury  turned  against 
her. 

"  I  had  to  think  of  her."  She  was  not  speaking  with 
authority,  but  hesitatingly,  almost  incoherently. 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  ?  "  And  then  he  stopped  abruptly. 
'^  You've  been  holding  that — that  time  at  Lauguedoc  against 
me?" 

"  I  have  not  been  holding  it  against  you.  I  had  to  think 
of  what  was  right.    You  are  so  young,"  she  faltered. 


106  FULL  SWING 

He  broke  in : 

"  There  is  one  thing — ^she  ■wouldn't  look  at  him." 

She  was  struggling  against  a  force  she  did  not  under- 
stand, as  unwilling  to  speak  to  him  of  his  infirmity  as  if  she 
had  to  break  to  him  that  he  was  deformed  or  disabled. 

"  He  is  very  steady  and  reliable."  She  was  very  sorry  for 
Desmond,  and  distressed.  But  her  conscience  stifled  her  heart, 
and,  although  she  would  give  him  everything,  she  knew  she 
must  not  give  him  Eunice,  not  the  girl  to  whom  now  she  felt 
curiously  cold  and  estranged,  but  who  had  been  left  in  her 
care,  and  whom  she  must  protect. 

Doggedly,  for  now  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  high  wall 
of  her  resistance,  and  meant  to  climb  it,  he  went  on : 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Eunice."  His  face  went  pale. 
"  You  can't  prevent  me.  I  can  do  what  I  like  when  I  am  of 
age." 

She  began  a  sentence  about  a  woman's  needs,  and  that  she 
should  be  able  to  look  up  to  her  husband ;  of  how  awful  it  is 
when  a  woman  must  submit  herself  to  her  husband,  despising 
him ;  she  got  out  a  desperate  half  word  about  what  it  is  to  be 
a  wife  and  see  a  man  you  have  sworn  to  love  and  obey  reel 
into  your  room. 

He  gazed  at  her  in  surprise,  then  gathered  she  was  speak- 
ing of  his  father. 

"  I  must  protect  her,"  she  said  painfully.  "  You  must  see 
that."  Desmond  resented  the  allusion  to  his  father,  that  he 
should  be  dragged  in.  He  answered  rudely,  but  quickly  and 
without  thought : 

"  You  won't  make  her  do  it,  for  all  you  say.  She  doesn't 
care  for  Michael  any  more  than  for  a  dead  dog.  She'll  never 
marry  him." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Lady  Grindelay  began,  and  stopped. 

"  I  don't  want  your  pity.  Why  should  you  be  sorry  for  me  ? 
There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

"I  know  it  is  only  weakness.  You  vnW  be  cured — ^you 
shall  be  cured." 

"  Never ! " 

It  choked  him  to  say  the  next  words;  he  had  never  said 


FULL  SWING  lOr 

them  to  Eunice,  nor  she  to  him,  the  words  in  which  he  must 
make  his  mother  understand.  His  voice  was  husky  and  his 
eyes  suffused. 

''  "We — we  care  for  each  other." 

He  walked  into  the  conservatory  after  having  said  it,  stay- 
ing there  to  recover  himself.  When  he  came  back  into  the 
room  his  mother  was  sitting  as  he  had  left  her.  He  came 
swiftly  to  her,  stood  close  beside  her. 

"  Mother,  you  don't  mean  to  keep  us  apart  ?  I  know,  of 
course  I  know  you  were  unhappy  with  my  father ;  but  because 
of  that  you  don't  want  me  to  be  unhappy  ?  " 

He  could  hardly  hear  her  reply;  the  pale  lips  formed  the 
words,  but  he  could  hardly  hear  them. 

"  No,  I  do  not  want  you  to  be  unhappy.  I  could  not  bear 
that  you  should  be  unhappy.  But  you  and  I — we  have  not 
only  ourselves  to  think  of.    We  must  make  sacrifices." 

"  Not  this  ?  "    His  own  voice  was  low. 

"  We  have  to  think  of  her — ^you  and  I.  It  is  dreadful  for 
you,  I  know,  to — to  give  her  up." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  her  up.    Mother,  I — I  love  her." 

But  he  felt  despairingly  that  his  mother  did  not  know  what 
was  this  love  of  which  he  was  telling  her,  how  it  paralysed 
his  tongue  and  made  his  mouth  dry,  how  beyond  words  it  was. 

She  would  have  come  into  all  the  kingdom  of  her  mother- 
hood with  one  touch  of  comprehension,  one  half  word  of 
sympathy.  In  the  silence  he  began  to  hope.  Never  before 
had  he  appealed  to  her,  not  in  this  way,  not  in  words,  only 
dumbly  or  sullenly,  and  she  had  never  quite  heard  or  under- 
stood the  call ;  there  was  so  much  between  them.  Now,  having 
spoken,  hope  rose,  poised  like  a  butterfly  wing  on  his  dry  lips. 

"  I  want  Eunice.    I — I  want  her  for  my  wife." 

She  would  have  given  her  to  him,  thrown  her  to  the 
wolves,  for  that  was  the  way  she  regarded  it,  only  for  her 
conscientiousness,  her  sense  of  duty  that  was  no  sense  at  all. 

^'  I  want  you  to  send  Michael  away — to  help  me." 

She  knew — she  knew  already  that  she  loved  him  better 
than  anything  on  earth,  and  would  have  given  him  her  own 


108  FULL  SWING 

heart  to  play  with.  But  not  Eunice's.  She  had  to  be  true  to 
her  trust. 

"I  cannot  send  Michael  away."  Her  voice  was  low. 
"  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you,  nor  give  you."  She 
who  had  not  known  what  passion  meant  felt  her  heart  beating 
passionately  now.  Memories  of  past  shame  and  humiliation 
scorched  her  cheek,  burned  in  her  eyes.  "  Only  not  Eunice. 
I — I  dare  not.    I  promised  her  mother  to  guard  her." 

"  And  why  not  ?    Why  not  ?  "  he  cried. 

It  was  she  who  appealed  to  him  now. 

*^  How  can  I  let  her  bear  what  I  have  borne  ?  I  promised 
her  mother  to  take  care  of  her.  You  say  I  must  not  pity  you. 
But  if  the  time  came  when  I  must  pity  her,  and  know  that  it 
was  I  who  had  connived  at  her  unhappiness !  How  could  I 
bear  it  ?  She  is  not  as  strong  as  I.  Yet  I,  with  my  strength  " 
— he  saw  the  colour  flush  her,  as  if  she  were  suffering  still — 
"  could  not  endure  it,  was  compelled  to  leave  him — my  self- 
respect.  .  .  ." 

"But  I — I "     His  voice  was  incredulous.     "What 

has  that  to  do  with  it? " 

She  could  hardly  speak,  but  knew  she  could  only  help  him 
by  telling  him  what  it  was  he  had  to  fight.  He  stood  before 
her,  flushed  and  incredulous,  angry.  In  her  heart  she  was 
rocking  and  soothing  him,  for  all  she  was  so  inarticulate. 
She  wanted  to  dull  and  still  the  pain  of  the  things  she  must 

say. 

"I  will  help  you,  help  you  all  that  is  possible,  against 
yourself.  But  you  must  understand ;  I  have  never  spoken  of 
this  before,  but  now  you  force  me.  Already,  as  with  him,  drink 
tempts  you,  and  you  yield.  You  say  you  must  have  her — 
you  must!  He  was  like  that,  without  principle  or  self- 
restraint.    What  he  wanted  he — he  took  .  .  ." 

"But  I  am  not  like  that."  He  was  angry,  very  angry, 
but  because  he  saw  she  suffered  he  kept  a  restraint  over 
himself. 

"  You  don't  know  yourself.  How  should  you  ?  But  that 
was  what  he  did — drank,  and  took  what  he  wanted  ,  .  ." 
Her  voice  failed;  she  was  remembering  dreadful  things. 


FULL  SWING  109 

"  I  am  not  like  that — and  I  don't  believe  he  was  either/' 
he  repeated,  almost  to  himself. 

"  You  came  to  me  drunk — drunk,  on  the  day  of  your 
father's  funeral ! " 

'"It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life — ^the  only  time.  I 
thought  you  had  forgiven  me." 

"  Forgiven !  I  had  not  to  forgive  you,  only  myself,  that 
I  had  given  you  this  inheritance,  this  father.     Loose  living, 

loose  thinking,  jesting  about  vice "     There  was  a  sob  in 

her  throat. 

"Don't,  mother,  don't!" 

She  was  ashamed — ashamed  of  his  shame  and  humilia- 
tion. But  he  ?  There  struggled  through  his  anger  something 
of  exultation.  If  it  was  from  those  things  she  would  protect 
Eunice,  he  was  with  her  heart  and  soul,  he  was  with  her  in 
desiring  it.  He  was  hot  to  tell  her  he  was  no  drunkard,  and 
for  loose  living  or  loose  talk  he  had  as  great  an  abhorrence 
as  she,  that  he  knew  no  kisses  but  those  from  the  soft  lips 
of  his  cousin.  He  wanted  that  all  these  things  should  be  clear 
to  her,  that  she  should  know  his  reverence  for  the  girl,  how 
he  cared  about  her.  He  was  shaken  with  the  thought  of 
the  greatness  of  his  love,  and  drew  nearer  to  his  mother. 
In  another  moment  he  would  have  told  her,  or  tried  to  tell 
her. 

But  she  gave  him  no  time.  Already  the  interview  had 
touched  deeper  issues  than  she  had  been  prepared  for.  She 
got  up  now,  abruptly,  before  he  had  time  to  speak  or  ap- 
proach her. 

"We  won't  speak  of  it  any  more,  if  you  don't  mind. 
Not  yet,  not  until  you  have  thought  things  over.  You  tell 
me  you  have  said  nothing  to  her.    You  will  not  do  so  now  ?  " 

Thrown  back  upon  himself  and  silenced,  in  the  reaction 
and  surprise  he  answered  quickly: 

"  I  am  not  going  to  make  any  promises.'^ 

"I  think  I  hear  the  carriage.  Isn't  that  the  carriage 
coming  back  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  say  anything  further  then.     Eunice 


110  FULL  SWING 

was  in  the  hall,  and  Michael  with  her;  their  voices  could  be 
heard,  and  Eunice's  laughter.    She  broke  into  the  room. 

"  I've  got  the  silk  and  Michael." 

She  looked  quickly  from  one  to  another. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,  is  there  ?  " 

"What  should  be  the  matter?"  Lady  Grindelay  asked, 
and  welcomed  Michael  fittingly.  Desmond  found  it  more 
difficult  to  regain  his  self-possession. 


CHAPTER  X 

This  was  in  the  spring  of  1899.  There  was  great  unrest  in 
South  Africa,  and  for  some  time  past  Kruger  had  been 
making  the  position  impossible  to  Englishmen.  He  had 
been  showing  his  teeth,  and  everywhere  but  officially,  in  the 
War  Office,  it  was  known  he  had  also  been  buying  guns.  We 
were  displaying  our  usual  official  urbanity,  and  certain  parlia- 
mentarians were  under  the  impression  that  the  situation 
could  be  cleaned  up  with  soft  soap.  Diplomacy  might  still 
have  succeeded,  but  faddists  on  both  sides  of  the  House  hung 
on  the  arms  of  negotiators,  impeding  progress,  delaying 
everything  but  the  preparations  of  the  Boers.  Our  army,  of 
course,  was  unready.  When  is  the  British  Army  ready  for 
war?  is  a  conundrum  to  which  the  answer  has  not  yet  been 
found.  But  young  officers  at  all  stations  were  becoming  hope- 
ful of  opportunity  for  showing  their  quality.  That  there 
might  be  an  insufficiency  of  these  was  a  contingency  that  was 
slowly  stirring  up  the  stagnant  minds  of  the  old  dotards  at 
the  War  Office.  That  spring  there  was  already  a  sensible 
augmentation  in  the  ranks  of  the  probationers,  who  were 
rushed  through  a  short  course  of  training  in  riding,  shooting, 
and  musketry  practice,  tactics,  and  what  not.  The  diploma 
of  a  commission  was  given  readily  to  youth  and  ignorance. 
The  effect  was  not  fully  known  until  a  series  of  disasters, 
holocausts  of  soldiers,  began  to  bring  it  home. 

This,  however,  is  only  incidentally  concerned  with  the 
story  of  Desmond  and  his  mother. 

Lady  Grindelay,  of  course,  did  not  believe  in  the  war. 
Few  English  mothers  did  at  that  time.  But  when,  at  dinner 
that  evening,  Michael  spoke  of  the  talk  at  the  London  clubs, 
how  everyone  thought  the  old  man,  Oom  Paul,  should  be 
given  a  lesson,  and  what  a  difference  it  was  making  in  the 
number  of  recruits,  Lady  Grindelay  noticed  how  Desmond's 
eyes  lit  up  and  how,  now  and  again,  his  colour  rose.  Although 
throughout  her  life  she  made  so  many  sad  and  irretrievable 

111 


113  FULL  SWING 

mistakes,  she  was  not  dull  witted.  This  seemed  to  her  to  be 
a  way  out  of  the  immediate  difficulty.  If  Desmond  could  be 
led  or  persuaded  to  enter  the  Army,  the  rest  would  happen 
naturally.  Michael  could  be  trusted  to  make  good  his  oppor- 
tunities. And  Desmond  would  be  under  discipline.  This 
was  what  he  needed.  The  late  Lord  Grindelay  had  been  his 
own  master  from  early  boyhood;  uncontrolled  at  the  most 
critical  period  of  his  life.  It  was  imperative  Desmond  should 
be  differently  placed.  Therefore,  she  encouraged  Michael  to 
talk  of  the  war  that  was  coming,  admitted  that  she  too  saw 
there  might  be  no  other  way  out,  and  expressed  the  opinion 
that  all  the  young  men  who  had  not  yet  chosen  a  profession 
would  make  a  rush  for  the  Army. 

"  The  Campdens  are  fortunate  with  their  sons.  Edric  has 
his  commission,  and  Jeffrey  is  already  at  Sandhurst." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  sorry  now  that  you  were  not  in  the 
Army  Class  at  Eton?"  Michael  asked  Desmond.  Except 
when  it  was  a  question  of  sport  or  field-lore,  it  was  in  the 
foreground  of  Michael's  mind  that  Desmond  was  a  boy  still, 
many  years  younger  than  himself. 

Desmond,  antagonistic  towards  him,  contradicted  him 
without  hesitation. 

"  No,  I'm  not.    It  is  a  rotten  way  to  get  into  the  Army." 

"  Desmond  is  not  anxious  for  military  glory,"  Lady  Grin- 
delay  said,  always  with  the  same  objective. 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  going  into  the  Army,"  he  answered 
her,  a  little  sullenly. 

"At  least,  you  have  never  shown  any  strong  leaning 
towards  it." 

"  Yes,  he  has.  Over  and  over  again  he  has  said  he  would 
like  to  be  a  soldier,"  Eunice  put  in  eagerly. 

"  That  was  before  there  was  any  talk  of  war,"  Michael 
answered,  with  an  attempt  at  humour;  and  quoted,  according 
to  habit,  "'1  was  with  Grant,  the  stranger  said,  two  years 
before  the  war.' " 

"  I  suppose  you  would  chuck  the  law  if  there  was  any 
chance  of  fighting  ?  "  Desmond  retorted. 

"Michael  has  his  father  to  think  of.     Your  father  tells 


FULL  SWING  113 

me  he  leaves  much  in  your  hands  already/'  Lady  Grindelay 
put  in^  to  cover  her  son's  aggressiveness. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  the  possibilities  of  war  were 
discussed.  Another  tennis  tournament  was  held,  and  while 
the  youngsters  played,  the  fathers  and  mothers  sat  in  the 
drawing-room,  or  walked  in  the  garden,  or  round  the  hot- 
houses, and  spoke  of  little  else.  Lady  Grindelay,  without  any 
belief  in  the  probability  of  our  great  country  being  defied 
or  drawn  into  battle  by  a  handful  of  Dutch  farmers,  con- 
cealed her  opinion,  and  spoke  of  the  duty  of  being  prepared. 
Desmond,  sauntering  into  the  room  when  all  the  guests  were 
gone  and  his  mother  and  Eunice  sat  together,  showed  he 
was  at  the  point  to  which  she  had  led  him. 

"All  this  war  talk  is  jolly  rot — a  handful  of  Boer 
farmers!  If  I  thought  there  was  anything  in  it,  I'd  have  a 
shot  for  the  Army  myself." 

"  You'd  look  splendid  in  a  uniform.  Lady  John  showed 
me  Edric's  portrait.     You'd  go  into  the  Guards,  wouldn't 


you 


?» 


"I  never  saw  anything  like  the  fuss  you  all  made  of 
Edric  to-day,"  he  answered.  "I'm  too  old  for  Sandhurst," 
he  added  inconsequently. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Lady  Grindelay  answered  quietly, 

"  Then  you  wouldn't  mind  ?  "  Eunice  cried. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  think  of  my  son  hanging  back  if 
his  country  had  need  of  him." 

"  Nobody  is  braver  than  Desmond." 

Lady  Grindelay  smiled,  smiled  because  Eunice  was  so 
quick  in  his  defence.  Desmond  thought  she  smiled  because 
she  doubted  that  too.  He  was  little  more  than  a  boy;  he  had 
not  yet  come  to  his  full  height,  the  stature  of  his  wisdom, 
or  the  measure  of  his  ambition.  Yesterday  he  could  think 
of  nothing  but  Eunice  and  the  sweetness  of  her,  of  his  own 
throbbing  pulses  and  restless  nights.  To-day,  at  the  thought 
of  "those  beggars,  the  Boers,  forbidding  Englishmen  in 
Johannesburg  to  bear  arms,"  his  blood  fired.  If  there  was  to 
be  a  war,  he  was  not  the  one  to  stay  at  home  and  read  about  it. 

8 


114  FULL  SWING 

When  he  was  alone  with  his  mother  he  said,  a  propos  of 
nothing : 

"I  don't  suppose  I  could  get  into  Sandhurst  without  a 
coach  ?  " 

"  There  would  be  no  difficulty  about  that,"  she  answered. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  Eunice "  he  began  again. 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  was  an  additional  reason." 

She  meant  that  because  he  could  not  marry  his  cousin, 
it  would  be  a  good  way  of  putting  her  out  of  his  mind  if  he 
decided  even  now,  late  though  it  was,  to  try  to  get  into  the 
Army.  He  needed  discipline.  She  did  not  believe  there 
would  be  a  war. 

It  came  about  quickly.  Afterwards  Lady  Grindelay  knew 
she  forced  it  to  come  about.  She  managed  that  Michael 
should  not  come  down  again  whilst  Desmond  was  still  unde- 
cided. When  she  saw  that  Desmond  thought  she  doubted 
his  courage,  and  that  it  helped  to  his  decision,  she  was  careful 
not  to  reassure  him.  She  told  everyone  of  his  decision  before 
he  had  made  it. 

"  My  son  thinks  if  there  is  any  chance  of  a  war,  he  must 
at  least  be  in  a  position  to  take  part  in  it." 

She  had  no  misgiving,  only  a  great  throb  of  gratitude 
to  the  Jameson  raiders  and  Kruger  for  having  forwarded 
her  plana.  She  would  take  Eunice  abroad  when  Desmond 
was  with  his  coach  in  London.  Michael's  wooing  would  be 
done  as  well  at  Aix-le-Bains  or  Dinard  as  here.  Desmond 
had  said  Eimice  knew  nothing  of  his  feelings  for  her,  and 
Lady  Grindelay  decided  it  was  best  she  should  never  know 
them.  She  thought  she  was  acting  in  Desmond's  best  interest, 
and  yet  not  neglecting  her  duty  to  Eunice.  Eunice  must  be 
safely  married,  or  at  least  engaged  to  Michael  McKay,  whilst 
Desmond  was  learning  to  be  a  soldier.  He  would  get  over 
his  wish  to  marry  Eunice ;  it  was  only  a  boyish  fancy.  Boyish 
fancy !  That  was  the  phrase  with  which  Agatha  masked  her 
ignorance,  with  which  she  set  herself  to  circumvent  that 
which  was  as  capable  of  circumvention  as  the  winding  of  a 
river  to  the  sea. 

When  she  heard  that  Blathwayt  Bird  would  take  Des- 


FULL  SWING  115 

mond,  and  that  there  were  ways  and  means  of  getting  over 
the  fact  that  he  would  be  a  few  months  over  age  at  the  time 
of  the  examination,  she  professed  astonishment  that  Desmond 
still  hesitated. 

"I  thought  you  had  quite  made  up  your  mind;  but,  of 
course,  if  you  prefer  the  Bar " 

"  Not  me !  " 

"  I  thought  I  was  carrying  out  your  views !  No  doubt  Mr. 
Bird  can  get  someone  in  your  place.  But  it  is  running  it  a 
little  close ;  the  term  begins  in  a  week " 

"  In  a  week !    I  can't  leave  here  in  a  week." 

''Why  not?" 

"You  can't  kick  me  out  like  that." 

"  Kick  you  out  ?  What  an  extraordinary  way  you  have  of 
talking!  I  really  understood  it  was  your  desire  to  be  with 
your  friends,  that  the  probability  of  having  to  go  to  South 
Africa  was  not  a  deterrent  to  you." 

"  Of  course  it  isn't." 

"Then?" 

"  Oh !  I'm  going  right  enough." 

His  temper  was  uneven,  he  was  not  always  quite  respect- 
ful ;  he  was  really  torn  this  way  and  the  other,  and  undecided. 
But  Michael  stayed  away,  and  Desmond  was  fairly  sure  of 
Eunice.  If  he  had  not  set  them  in  motion,  at  least  he 
acquiesced  in  the  arrangements  that  were  so  quickly  made 
for  him. 

Harried  and  driven,  with  the  parting  so  near  at  hand, 
the  promise  he  had  never  given  became  at  all  hazards  the 
one  he  must  break.  He  was  not  going  away  from  Eunice  for 
six,  or  it  might  be  eight,  months  without  speaking  to  her; 
not  going  to  leave  the  way  clear  for  Michael  McKay  or  any- 
body else. 

His  mother,  having  brought  him  to  the  point  she  desired, 
had  nothing  more  to  do  but  keep  the  young  people  apart.  He 
saw  what  she  was  about,  and  that  in  these  few  hurried  days 
he  and  Eunice  were  never  alone  together,  were  like  driven 
partridges  before  her. 


116  FULL  SWING 

Love  did  not  laugh  at  locksmiths  on  this  occasion;  love, 
exemplified  by  Desmond,  was  in  no  laughing  mood.  He 
watched  and  waited,  looking  for  opportunity;  but  in  the  end 
had  to  make  his  own,  finding  he  had  hesitated  long  enough. 

Eunice  was  quite  satisfied  that  Desmond  was  to  be  a 
soldier,  picturing  him  in  his  smart  uniform,  calling  him 
"  Colonel,"  and  teasing  him.  She  was  still  quite  happy,  just 
as  she  had  been  all  the  summer,  with  a  throbbing  and  excitable 
happiness. 

It  was  a  bore  that  her  aunt  was  always  with  her  and 
Desmond  now,  but,  of  course,  it  was  natural,  since  he  was 
going  away  so  soon.  She  made  innocent  little  efforts  to 
dodge  her,  but  they  came  to  nothing.  She  did  not  understand 
she  was  being  guarded,  nor  why  they  were  never  alone. 

On  Tuesday  Desmond  was  to  go  to  London,  and  already 
it  was  Sunday — the  last  Sunday  of  all. 

On  Sunday,  in  Marley  old  church,  undismayed  by  the 
brasses  and  monuments  of  his  ancestry,  Desmond  smuggled 
her  a  pencilled  note,  as  he  had  done  so  often  under  the  e5'es 
of  governess  or  tutor  in  more  childish  days.  She  read  it  as 
she  knelt;  the  irreverence  of  it  was  nothing  to  the  fun  of 
feeling  like  a  child  again;  she  even  smiled  her  appreciation 
to  him,  under  the  cover  of  her  kneeling. 

"We  never  get  a  chance  by  ourselves  now.  Get  up 
at  six  to-morrow,  and  meet  me  in  the  spinney.  I'll  forage 
a  basket,  and  we'll  get  lost  in  the  woods.  It's  our  last 
chance." 

His  last  chance  of  meeting  her  alone,  telling  her  what 
was  in  his  heart.  But  it  was  not  only  the  telling  he  had  in 
his  mind.  He  was  not  even  quite  sure  what  he  would  say, 
recognising  the  lingering  quality  of  childhood  in  her.  But 
he  must  warn  her  against  Michael;  that  at  least  he  was 
entitled  to  do. 

They  would  have  their  last  day  in  the  woods  together 
alone,  visit  each  remembered  haunt,  be  as  they  had  always 


FULL  SWING  117 

been.  He  fretted  under  surveillance,  and  was  upon  his  mettle 
to  evade  it. 

He  would  go  into  the  Army,  for  there  was  a  chance  of 
active  service,  but  before  he  went  he  must  say  a  word  to 
Eunice,  or  half  a  word ;  he  might  get  a  promise  from  her. 

At  breakfast  on  Monday  they  were  both  missing. 

Lady  Grindelay  was  not  in  doubt  of  what  had  occurred, 
for  Eunice,  never  negligent  or  careless,  had  left  a  little  note : 

''  Desmond  and  I  are  going  to  say  good-bye  to  every- 
thing. We've  taken  lunch  with  us.  I  know  it's  rather 
awful  of  us  to  run  away  like  this  before  anyone  is  up, 
but  we  did  so  want  to  be  alone." 

Lady  Grindelay  disguised  her  dismay,  hoping  for  the  best. 

"  It  is  natural  they  should  want  to  go  round  all  their 
haunts;  they  have  so  many  hiding-places  in  the  woods,  tame 
squirrels  to  feed,  the  boats  to  put  away."  She  kept  reassur- 
ing herself,  although  with  difficulty.  If  she  could  only  have 
seen  the  boy  without  that  which  was  really  no  part  of  him — 
his  father's  vices — she  could  have  acknowledged  what  he  had 
become  to  her,  perhaps  even  shown  it.  As  it  was,  she  was 
half  glad  he  should  have  this  day,  and  half  ashamed,  because 
she  thought  Eunice  might  suffer  through  it.  She  spent  the 
day  trying  to  forget  all  the  horrible  things  her  husband  had 
told  her  about  men  who  had  been  alone  with  young  girls,  com- 
forting herself  by  thinking  how  different  her  son  was  to  his 
father,  and  still  young,  that  perhaps  the  stories  his  father  had 
told  her  had  not  been  true ;  having  faith  in  him,  only  doubt- 
ing herself,  and  whether  she  should  have  kept  them  apart 
more  strictly. 

Out  of  doors  since  six  o'clock,  drinking  in  the  fine  fresh 
fragrance  of  the  early  day,  Desmond  and  Eunice  revelled  in 
their  stolen  freedom.  They  were  on  the  river  for  half  an  hour 
before  the  sun  was  high,  having  it  all  to  themselves,  the 
broad,  silver  surface  and  dappled  silence.  They  were  again 
in  the  woods  before  noon,  the  food  Desmond  had  foraged  out- 


118  FULL  SWING 

spread ;  nothing  between  them  and  complete  happiness  but  the 
consciousness  of  to-morrow  and  the  parting. 

When  lunch  was  over,  they  wandered  under  the  green 
veiling  of  the  interlacing  trees,  a  little  tired,  their  spirits  a 
little  overcast,  talking  of  the  days  they  had  spent  here  in 
childhood.  Desmond  spoke  of  his  unhappiness  when  he  was  a 
little  boy,  of  his  old  home-sickness  for  Languedoc. 

"  Now  it's  Marley  seems  home  to  me,"  he  added. 

"There's  no  place  like  Marley." 

"  That's  true ;  but  it  was  you  taught  it  me." 

"  You  weren't  happy  here  at  first  ?  " 

"  Not  until  you  made  me  so." 

"Did  I  make  you  happy?  I  always  wanted  to.  I  knew 
you  felt  strange  and  shy." 

"  Was  it  shy  you  thought  me  ?  " 

"Wild.  I  remember  when  you  first  came,  and  Uncle 
Andrew  said  you  were  like  Struwwelpeter." 

"  No,  that  was  the  second  time.  The  first  time  I  had 
Biddy  with  me,  my  Irish  nurse.  She  thought  you  were  all 
against  me — criticising  me." 

They  talked  of  young  memories,  sentimentalising  over 
them,  perhaps.     Their  mood  was  sentimental,  subdued. 

"  I  shall  often  think  of  this  day  when  I  am  away." 

"  So  shall  I." 

"Will  you?" 

He  was  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was  saying,  for  he 
had  said  nothing  to  her  of  what  he  had  in  his  mind,  and  the 
time  was  getting  late. 

"  Of  course  I  shall." 

"But  you  are  going  abroad;  you'll  see  many  new  sights 
and  people.    You'll  have  a  lot  to  think  of  besides  me." 

"I  always  think  of  you  when  you're  away;  I  did  when 
you  were  at  Eton.  Lately,  too,  when  you  stayed  at  Lan- 
guedoc, and  I  knew  you  and  auntie  had  quarrelled.  I  still 
think  sometimes  that  you  and  auntie  don't  understand  each 
other  as  well  as  you  and  I,  or  as  well  as  auntie  and  I."  She 
flushed  a  little  when  she  had  said  that.    "  I  used  to  cry  about 


FULL  SWING  119 

it  sometimes.  It  is  so  sad,  because  she  is  really  your  mother, 
and  not  mine."  She  paused,  and  added  shyly,  sweetly,  "  You 
won't  think  unkind  things  of  her  whilst  we  are  away,  will 
you  ?  You  used  to  think  she  did  not  care  about  you ;  you  re- 
member saying  that.  But  it  isn't  true,  Desmond.  Auntie  is 
all  tender  and  loving  inside,  not  a  bit  like  she  pretends  to 
be.    Besides,  mothers  must  love  their  own  children." 

"  Must  they  ?  "  And  then  he  added  hastily,  "  I  dare  say 
you  are  right ;  I'm  sure  you  are  right.  But  she's  got  a  funny 
way  of  showing  it." 

"  She  said  whatever  allowance  the  other  young  men  had  at 
Mr.  Bird's,  Uncle  Andrew  was  to  see  you  had  as  much  or 
more.  You  were  not  to  want  for  anything.  She  is  going  to 
open  a  banking  account  for  you.  I  heard  her  talking  about 
it.    You  know  she's  awfully  generous." 

"  She'd  give  me  anything  but  what  I  want  most." 

"  What  do  you  want  most  ?  "  she  asked  quickly,  looking  up 
at  him.  She  must  have  read  something  in  his  eyes,  for  the 
faint  flush  came  again,  and  she  did  not  press  for  a  reply. 

"  Let's  sit  down  here." 

They  sat  on  the  gnarled  roots  of  an  ancient  oak,  and  a 
silence  fell  between  them,  a  silence  like  a  shadow.  But  she 
could  not  long  be  shy  with  Desmond.  She  came  near  to  him 
until  their  shoulders  were  almost  touching. 

"  Don't  be  sad,  Desmond.  I  can't  bear  to  think  you  are 
going  away  sad.  You  always  said  you  wanted  to  be  a  soldier. 
Yet,  since  this  has  been  arranged,  you  haven't  seemed  a  bit 
happy.    Of  course,  it  can't  be  because  there  may  be  a  war " 

"  Did  she  say  that  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  hastily.  "  Is  that 
what  she  thinks  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Of  course,  if  there  was  really  a  war  we 
should  neither  of  us  want  you  to  go." 

"  You'd  have  to  put  up  with  it  then.  No,  it  isn't  because 
there  might  be  a  chance  of  active  service.  That's  about  the 
only  inducement." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?    I  know  you're  not  happy." 

"Do  you  think  Michael  McKay  will  come  out  to  you  at 


120  FULL  SWING 

Aix  or  Dinard?"  he  asked  irrelevantly  and  in  a  different 
tone. 

"  I  know  he  will ;  I  heard  her  ask  him.  What  has  that  to 
do  with  it?'' 

"  Nothing.  Only  I  wanted  to  know.  Tell  me  again.  You 
missed  me  when  I  was  away,  used  to  be  unhappy  about  me  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  and  about  you  and  auntie  not  loving  each  other.  I 
used  to  cry  about  it  when  I  was  alone  in  my  bedroom  at  night, 
cry  myself  to  sleep/' 

"You  cried  about  me?^' 

"Yes.  I  never  told  anyone.  But  now  everything  is  so 
different.  You  are  going  to  learn  to  be  a  soldier,  and  you 
know  you  always  wanted  to  be  a  soldier — you  remember  we 
used  to  play  at  soldiers?  If  it  isn't  the  war,  is  it  being  in 
London,  or  the  examination?" 

She  saw  that  he  was  unhappy  as  he  had  been  in  child- 
hood's days,  and  crept  nearer  to  him.  The  green  shadow 
from  the  trees  or  some  other  shadow  was  upon  his  face,  and 
she  wanted  to  comfort  him. 

"  Tell  me  why  you  look  uphappy.  I  want  you  always  to 
tell  me  everything." 

« I  will.    I  want  to." 

"We've  always  told  each  other  everything — except  about 
my  crying  in  bed." 

"Not  quite,  not  lately.  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. It's — it's  about  Michael  McKay.  You  haven't  guessed, 
have  you  ?  " 

"  Guessed  what  ?  " 

"  Why  Michael  hangs  about.  Why  he  is  coming  out  to  you 
at  Aix  or  Dinard.    Why  she  has  invited  him." 

"  No."  But  she  was  apprehensive,  the  flush  again  staining 
her  cheek. 

"  She  wants  you  to  marry  Michael." 

"  Me !  "  She  was  amused,  but  her  breath  came  quickly, 
smiling  and  a  little  derisive,  but  not  utterly  without  belief. 
He  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"  You  never  guessed  ?  " 


FULL  SWING  121 

"  It's  so  ridiculous ! " 

"Ridiculous,  is  it?  I  believe  it  is.  You'd  never  marry 
anyone  but  me,  would  you  ?  You'll  wait  for  me,  won't  you  ?  " 
His  arm  was  about  her,  but  her  face  was  quickly  hidden  against 
his  coat,  and  he  had  to  stoop  his  head  to  hear  her  answer. 

"They'll  try  and  argue  with  you — persuade  you.  She 
said  we  were  just  like  brother  and  sister.'* 

"  We're  not  ?  "    Her  voice  was  stifled. 

"That's  why  I  was  angry  with  Michael  for  saying  it. 
It's  not  true  at  all."  She  had  to  hide  her  face  deeper.  He 
whispered:  "Tell  me  you're  as  glad  about  that  as  I  am." 
She  made  no  answer  this  time,  her  burning  face  was  hidden, 
her  beating  heart  frightened  her. 

"  It's  not  that  way  I'm  caring  for  you,  nor  you  for  me, 
is  it?    Tell  me,  tell  me ! " 

She  could  not  answer,  sitting  there  in  the  encircling  ten- 
derness of  his  young  arm,  sweetly  startled,  sweetly  afraid. 
Her  heart  was  knocking  out  the  answer  all  the  time  as  if  it 
were  a  spirit  at  a  table-turning  seance.  But  it  was  hardly 
her  time  to  love ;  a  minute  ago  she  had  been  a  child. 

"I  don't  know,  Desmond,  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered. 
"I'm  afraid." 

"  You  mustn't  be  afraid."  He  felt  that  she  clung  to  him. 
"  It's  true  then — that's  all  that  matters.    Is  it  true  ?  " 

An  awe  of  it  came  upon  him.  It  was  true  that  they  loved 
each  other,  and  it  was  wonderful.  They  sat  for  a  minute  or 
two,  holding  each  other.  At  last  she  raised  her  face  to  him, 
her  child-lips  trembling.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears  when  he 
kissed  her — so  were  hers — quickly.  A  thousand  memories 
were  between  them  in  this  surprising  moment,  childish  mem- 
ories. She  had  often  cried  in  his  arms  or  against  his  shoul- 
der, been  comforted  roughly  or  tenderly.  She  had  cried  for 
a  grazed  knee,  or  a  fall;  a  broken  doll  or  some  nursery 
tragedy ;  because  he  was  going  away  to  school,  or  he  had  said 
a  hasty  unkind  word.  These  tears  were  different,  he  kissed 
them,  his  arms  shook  as  he  held  her.  She  clung  to  him  and 
her  words  were  almost  wild. 


122  FULL  SWING 

"  Oh,  Desmond !    Is  it  true — is  it  really  true  ?  " 

He  saw  how  young  she  was,  hardly  old  enough  to  hold 
this  great  truth.  And  then  it  was  he  proved  himself  a  fine 
gentleman,  not  wild  or  undisciplined  as  his  mother  thought 
him,  but  a  fine  gentleman,  chivalrous,  sensitive,  restrained. 
Her  lips  were  there,  but  for  all  the  temptation  it  was  not  there 
he  answered  her.  His  arm  was  about  her  waist,  but  he  never 
drew  her  to  him,  for  all  his  sudden  hunger  for  her.  He 
steadied  himself  and  answered  as  soberly  as  if  he  were 
Michael. 

"  It  is  true.    You  won't  forget  it  whilst  I  am  away  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  won't  marry  Michael  ?  " 

"  Never ! " 

"  Promise ! " 

"  I  promise." 

"  You'll  never  marry  anyone  but  me.  You'll  wait  for 
me?" 

"  I  promise." 

"  Honest  Injun !  " 

"  Honest  Injun,"  she  repeated. 

It  was  the  old  childish  oath  that  had  never  been  broken, 
that  was  as  solemn  as  a  sacrament.  They  looked  at  each  other, 
half  laughing,  but  there  was  a  solemnity  about  their  laughter, 
and  a  difference.    Then  she  said  hurriedly,  a  little  confused : 

"  It's  getting  late.    Oughtn't  we  to  be  going  back  ?  " 

*'  There's  no  going  back  on  this,"  he  answered  agitatedly. 

"  I  know." 

She  was  as  one  caught  unawares,  her  young  feet  unsteady 
in  this  radiant  path;  she  wanted  to  hide,  to  get  to  shelter. 
And  because  of  his  chivalry  and  fineness,  because  he  would 
as  lief  prize  open  a  money-box,  or  open  a  letter  not  addressed 
to  him,  as  force  the  emotion  upon  her  that  was  making  his 
own  colour  come  and  go,  unsteadying  his  voice,  he  said  no 
more  to  her.  And  soberly,  for  all  he  was  so  secretly  thrilled 
and  elated  and  sure  that  they  understood  each  other,  he  agreed 
that  it  was  getting  late,  and  that  their  truant  holiday  was 
over. 


FULL  SWING  123 

Afterwards  they  spoke  of  trivial  things,  of  the  boxes  that 
must  be  packed,  and  what  he  would  take  with  him  and  what 
leave  behind;  in  whose  keeping  he  would  leave  the  care  of 
dog  or  ferret.  It  was  not  until  they  were  in  sight  of  the 
house,  not  until  in  the  distance  he  saw  his  mother  on  the 
terrace,  that  he  said  to  her  again  in  that  low,  unsteady  voice : 

"  You  won't  forget  ?  " 

The  strange  new  shyness  with  him  broke  like  a  flower  in 
her  heart  into  a  too  poignant  sweetness.  She  shook  her  head, 
and  that  was  all.  But  he  took  it  as  the  ratification  of  her 
promise,  following  her  with  his  heart  lightened. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Blathwayt  Bird,  whose  famous  cramming  establishment  in 
Netting  Hill  had  been  selected  for  Desmond,  was  a  man  with 
a  history.  Men,  no  less  than  countries  and  women,  are  gen- 
erally better  without  one,  and  Blathwayt  Bird  was  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rula  He  had  been  in  Parliament,  and  might  have 
made  a  figure  there,  for  he  had  great  debating  gifts  and  that 
intolerance  of  other  people's  opinons  and  feelings  whicli  dis- 
tinguish proletarian  leaders  of  men.  At  the  commencement 
of  what  promised  to  be  an  interesting  career,  however,  a 
slight  accident  combined  with  some  hereditary  delicacy  to 
make  a  lifelong  cripple  of  him.  Henceforth  the  heated  brain 
effervesced  in  a  shrunken  and  impotent  body.  Some  spinal 
trouble  developed,  and  he  never  recovered  the  use  of  his  legs. 

Unable  to  debate,  he  was  still  able  to  instruct.  His  first 
pupil  was  the  son  of  one  of  the  Liberal  Whips.  The  boy  had 
been  a  conspicuous  failure  at  his  public  school,  but  after  six 
months  with  Blathwayt  Bird  he  passed  a  brilliant  examina- 
tion for  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  The  next  was  the  son  of  a 
South  African  millionaire,  and  the  result  was  the  same. 
Blathwayt  Bird's  reputation  as  a  coach  sprang,  mushroom- 
like, in  a  single  night.  Before  he  had  learned  to  accommodate 
himself  to  his  invalid  chair,  he  had  more  work  than  he  could 
get  through.  As  a  teacher  he  proved  himself  truculent, 
effective,  arresting.  He  took  a  house  in  Notting  Hill,  and 
people  rushed  to  secure  his  sendees  for  their  sons.  His 
pupils  headed  the  lists  for  Sandhurst,  Woolwich,  the  Indian 
and  Home  Civil  Services.  He  enlarged  and  enlarged  his 
premises,  increased  his  st-aff,  was  both  conscious  and  vain  of 
his  success,  but  never  became  reconciled  to  his  condition. 

Wheeled  into  the  dining-room,  where  he  had  meals  with 
his  pupils  and  fellow-teachers,  he  talked  Atheism  and  de- 
pravity, giving  classical  examples  in  praise^  not  only  of 
drunkenness,  but  debauchery.    He  set  the  tone  of  his  house, 

124 


FULL  SWING  125 

defending  himself  when  attacked,  and  repudiating  respon- 
sibility callously  and  cynically. 

"I  am  here  to  pass  men  through  examinations,  not  to 
dry-nurse  them.  If  they  want  dry-nursing  they  must  go  to 
a  mealy-mouthed  parson.  I'm  an  immoralist,  a  free  thinker. 
Damn  it,  look  at  me !  Am  I  an  object  lesson  on  the  goodness 
of  God?"  he  shouted. 

The  unwieldy  establishment — three  houses  and  a  dis- 
organised control — was  dominated  by  the  personality  of  the 
head,  and  from  the  first  Desmond  found  it  difficult  to  accom- 
modate himself  to  its  ways. 

Blathwayt  Bird  was  a  Radical,  a  Socialist,  a  Home  Ruler, 
everything  to  which  the  young  landowner's  sympathies  were 
most  diametrically  opposed.  For  Desmond  was  a  landowner, 
although  those  acres  of  his  paid  little  or  no  rent,  and  what 
money  was  allowed  to  filter  through  to  him  was  absorbed  by 
payments  to  the  mortgages.  He  never  understood  that  the 
wild  and  heated  talk  here  was  half  artificial,  and  only  the 
work  was  real.  Desmond  at  first  tried  to  argue,  and  so  came 
under  the  scathing  satire  of  the  cripple's  coarse  tongue.  An 
injudicious  letter  from  his  mother  failed  to  improve  matters. 
Knowing  nothing  of  Blathwayt  Bird  save  that  he  was  a  suc- 
cessful coach,  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  write  to  him  about 
Desmond.  Agatha  never  failed  in  duty,  though  her  per- 
spective might  be  awry.  She  was  anxious  not  to  prejudice  Mr. 
Bird  against  Dfesmond,  and  wrote  carefully: 

"You  will  find  my  dear  boy  somewhat  excitable  and 
impulsive.  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  you  used  your 
influence  to  persuade  him  to  abstain  entirely  from  wine 
and  spirits.  .  .  ." 

Blathwayt  read  the  letter  aloud,  mockingly,  at  the  dinner 
table. 

"You  are  to  drink  milk  and  water,  I  understand.  I 
wonder  she  doesn't  send  you  a  bottle.  I  suppose  that's  what 
you've  been  brought  up  on,  why  your  brain  hasn't  developed." 
What  he  added  made  the  boy's  cheeks  redden;  there  was 


126  FULL  SWING 

nothing  Blathwayt  minded  saying  to  these  young  men,  no 
decencies  he  did  not  enjoy  outraging. 

Desmond  soon  became  something  of  a  butt  to  him,  and 
to  show  he  was  not  the  effeminate  fellow  his  tutor  thought 
him,  he  did  and  said  things  to  prove  his  manhood  which 
only  proved  the  contrary. 

All  tlie  atmosphere  was  bad  for  him.  Lady  Grindelay 
came  to  a  faint  misgiving  about  it,  but  not  until  it  was  too 
late  for  her  to  make  a  change.  Mr.  Bird  wrote  as  he  talked. 
He  ridiculed  encouraging  Desmond  to  teetotalism,  and  said 
he  was  pleased  to  discover  in  him  a  dawning  palate : 

"  My  dear  Madam, — I  can  report  that  your  son  shows 
a  happier  aptitude  to  distinguish  between  Chateau  Yquem 
and  Veuve  Cliquot  than  he  does  to  differentiate  his  Greek 
roots.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  discourage  the  only  talent  I 
have  observed.  .  .  ." 

When,  in  alarm,  she  wrote  again,  hoping  that  Desmond 
had  not  proved  intemperate,  he  replied  that  if  she  wished  to 
take  him  away  she  could,  but,  if  he  remained,  it  would  not 
be  as  a  Sunday  school  scholar. 

Andrew  McKay  saw  the  correspondence,  and  tried  to 
explain  Blathwayt  Bird  to  Agatha.  She  did  realise  the  im- 
portance of  the  examination,  was  made  to  understand  no  one 
but  Bird  could  get  the  boy  through,  and  reluctantly  agreed 
to  write  him  no  more  letters,  not  to  interfere  with  him, 

Andrew's  house  in  Campden  Hill  was  open  to  Desmond, 
but  he  did  not  often  take  advantage  of  the  hospitalities 
offered.  He  could  not  bear  to  meet  Michael.  At  Whitsuntide 
he  heard  Michael  was  again  at  Marley,  whilst  he  was  bidden 
to  remain  on  grinding  at  Notting  Hill.  His  mother  tried 
to  soften  the  position. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  you  to  remain  where  you  are.  Mr. 
Bird  tells  me  you  will  need  every  minute  if  you  are  to  get 
through.  I  will  come  up  and  stay  near  you  for  a  few  days  if 
it  will  make  things  any  better  for  you." 

He  refused  the  offer.     Sometimes  now  he  was  conscious 


FULL  SWING  127 

of  a  growing  resentment  against  his  mother  and  what  he  was 
beginning  to  think  of  as  her  "  damnable  kindness."  He  was 
not  yet  keen  on  his  prospects,  and  the  getting  up  the  various 
subjects  demanded  was  thoroughly  uncongenial.  So  was  the 
whole  life,  with  its  surroundings. 

Eunice  wrote,  too,  but  her  letters  said  nothing  to  him. 
They  seemed  to  be  written  under  constraint;  they  were  full 
of  what  she  was  doing,  never  of  what  she  was  thinking,  dif- 
fering in  some  vital  essential  from  the  letters  he  had  always 
had  from  her.  He  could  not  know  it  was  her  new  shyness 
that  cramped  theiii.  The  remembrance  of  their  wonderful 
talk  in  the  woods  seemed  to  him  at  times  only  a  dream. 

It  never  struck  him  that  she,  too,  had  some  reflection  of 
this  feeling,  that  the  old,  unrestrained  intercourse  was  ob- 
scured, without,  as  yet,  giving  them  a  new  and  more  perfect 
intimacy.  She  seemed  farther  off  from  him  than  she  had 
ever  been,  inaccessible.  Often  now  he  wished  he  had  said 
more.  Yet  he  never  wrote  it,  for  the  vein  of  chivalry  in  him 
prevented  this.  He  thought  sometimes  that  everything  would 
be  different  if  he  could  pass  this  "  beastly  examination." 

But  in  the  meantime  he  resented  Michael  having  the  op- 
portunities denied  to  himself,  and  went  rarely  to  Campden 
Hill. 

Of  course  he  made  friends.  He  had  passed  through  Eton 
unscathed,  but  here  he  could  not  hold  himself  aloof,  nor  live 
differently  from  liis  fellows;  not  ostentatiously  differently. 
There  were  few  restrictions  and  little  restraint.  As  long  as 
the  work  was  got  through,  nothing  else  mattered.  Desmond 
went  with  others  of  the  pupils  to  theatres  and  music  halls, 
talked  with  barmaids  and  promenaders ;  "  saw  life,"  a  sordid 
life,  of  which  he  always  remained,  however,  something  of  an 
outsider.  He  did  his  best  to  work,  although  work  was  so 
against  the  grain.  Blathwayt  Bird  called  him  milk-bred  and 
mealy-mouthed,  until  he  became  more  reckless  and  played  at 
being  the  man  of  the  world,  not  condemning  that  which  never- 
theless he  did  not  copy.  He  was  sometimes  persuaded  of  his 
own  unworthiness,  and  thought  that  Eunice  might  also  be, 
and  that  she  would  give  him  up;  he  had  at  these  times  no 


128  FULL  SWING 

armour  to  buckle  on,  no  shining  armour  of  love  and  faith 
such  as  is  girded  upon  boys  whose  young  mothers  watch  and 
pray  by  their  bedsides.  He  was  defenceless  against  any  temp- 
tation that  might  come. 

Michael  came  to  see  him  on  his  return  from  Marley,  bring- 
ing messages.  Desmond  misunderstood  all  the  messages 
Michael  brought,  resented  hearing  of  Eunice  through  him, 
was  almost  rude,  and  said  he  did  not  want  to  hear  any  more. 
Michael  thought  Desmond  had  deteriorated,  and  held  anxious 
consultation  with  his  father,  hoping  he  was  not  getting  under 
bad  influence.  They  tried  to  get  him  to  go  more  often  to 
Campden  Hill,  but  after  he  heard  that  Michael  was  going 
with  Lady  Grindelay  and  Eunice  to  Cornwall  at  midsummer, 
and  from  his  mother  that  he  was  to  join  Mr.  Bird's  reading 
party,  Desmond  refused  to  go  at  all  to  Campden  Hill,  putting 
forward  his  work  as  an  excuse. 

The  McKays  heard  of  him  at  music  halls  and  feared  for 
him.  But  they  need  not  have  feared.  There  was  no  coarse 
fibre  in  the  texture  of  his  mind,  and  if  he  had  no  armour,  he 
had  at  least  an  amulet. 

He  went  down  to  Marley  for  the  August  Bank  Holiday. 
This  was  to  be  practically  his  good-bye  visit.  The  foreign 
travel  had  fallen  through  for  the  moment,  and  Lady  Grinde- 
lay was  taking  Eunice  to  Cornwall.  The  McKays  would  be 
of  the  party,  whilst  Desmond  was  to  suffer  the  uncongeniality 
of  Blathwayt  Bird  and  his  most  backward  pupils.  Then  back 
to  Netting  Hill  until  it  was  time  to  go  up  for  the  examina- 
tion. After  which,  if  he  was  fortunate,  there  would  be  Sand- 
hurst.   If  not — well,  that  he  did  not  care  to  contemplate. 

He  was  very  much  disappointed  to  find  that  even  during 
those  few  days  he  and  Eunice  were  never  alone.  His  mother 
had  arranged  that  the  Campdens  should  be  there,  and  one  or 
two  cadets;  she  wished  to  make  Desmond  in  love  with  his 
new  career.    Everything  was  designed  to  that  end. 

Having  cut  the  ground  from  under  his  feet  with  Eunice, 
she  was  anxious  to  compensate  him  for  all  of  which  she  had 
deprived  him.  Not  knowing  that  its  name  was  Hope,  the 
spring  of  life  and  high  endeavour,  Agatha  was  satisfied  with 


FULL  SWING  129 

all  she  had  done  and  was  doing  for  her  son.  She  talked  to  him 
of  his  career  until  he  was  sick  of  the  word,  and  praised  him 
because  he  took  no  more  champagne  than  the  others  with 
his  meals. 

Eunice  had  blossomed  into  some  new  beauty,  whilst  he, 
emerging  from  that  coarse  atmosphere  at  Notting  Hill,  had 
perhaps  some  new  reticence.  Lady  Grindelay  noted  with  sat- 
isfaction the  manner  of  the  young  people  toward  each  other. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Eunice  hardly  knew  this  changed  and 
silent  Desmond,  who  was  so  abrupt  and  strange,  cool  or  in- 
different. She  began  to  think  she  had  mistaken  what  he  said 
to  her  that  day  in  the  wood,  or  that  he  had  changed  his 
mind.  She  began  to  feel  estranged  from  him,  ashamed  of 
all  she  had  dreamed.  It  seemed  as  if  the  old  intimacy  was 
gone,  as  if  they  no  longer  understood  each  other.  And  yet, 
and  yet — she  was  not  sure.  There  were  moments  when  she 
thought  differently,  when  his  eyes  met  hers  in  sudden  recog- 
nition, when  she  found  herself  moved  to  flush  and  confusion, 
and  some  strange  flutter  of  pleasure  or  poignant  pain. 

Lady  Grindelay  filled  the  time  with  engagements,  enter- 
tainments, keeping  the  house  full,  arranging  that  the  two 
young  people  should  be  kept  apart.  It  never  struck  her  that 
secretly,  strangely,  shyly,  the  two  she  wished  to  keep  separate 
were  abetting  her  in  her  endeavour.  Eunice  and  Desmond 
had  no  talk  together  at  all.  He  saw  her  wooed  by  all  the 
young  men  about  her,  and  felt  himself  strangely  and  inex- 
plicably debarred.  Sometimes  he  wondered  if  his  mother  was 
right  about  him,  if  it  was  true  he  was  unfit  for  her.  The 
humility  of  his  spirit  was  the  measure  of  the  greatness  of  his 
love.  The  girl  had  suddenly  become  mysterious.  To  him 
she  represented  the  whole  soul  of  womanhood.  He  thrilled 
with  her  nearness,  and  was  silenced  by  it.  He  felt  stained 
by  the  knowledge  he  had  acquired,  her  virginal  innocence 
made  him  ashamed.  If  only  they  had  been  left  alone!  But 
Lady  Grindelay  shepherded  them  carefully,  conscientiously 
doing  what  she  believed  to  be  her  duty  to  her  dead  sister's 
child. 


9 


CHAPTER  XII 

Michael's  wooing  was  little  different  in  Cornwall  from  what 
it  had  been  at  Marley, 

Eunice  was  adroit  in  contriving  that  they  were  never  alone 
together,  in  avoiding  sentimentality  and  substituting  exercise. 
They  were  staying  at  the  gayest  and  most-frequented  hotel 
in  Newquay;  there  were  tennis  and  croquet  and  golf,  and  at 
one  or  the  other  of  them  the  girl  could  always  be  found.  She 
made  friends  easily,  was  always  in  request  for  this  or  the 
other  game.  She  included  Michael  in  her  arrangements,  but 
that  was  all.  He  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  progress  he  was 
making;  knowing  nothing  of  what  was  behind  her  anxiety 
to  avoid  being  alone  with  him  he  put  it  down  to  natural  girlish 
shyness,  and  found  it  wholly  charming.  They  were  to  be  away 
six  weeks  altogether.  Before  three  of  them  were  gone,  she 
complained  of  being  bored  with  the  place,  of  finding  every- 
thing tedious;  she  lost  interest  in  games. 

He  could  not  know  she  was  wearying  for  her  boy  cousin, 
for  the  letters  that  said  so  little  when  they  came;  that  she 
was  counting  the  days  to  the  time  when  they  were  to  go  back 
to  Marley,  home-sick  in  the  simshine  for  the  shadow  of  Marley 
Woods,  home-sick  beside  the  changing  sea  and  jagged  coast- 
line for  the  grey  river  and  the  banks  where  it  lapped  among 
the  reeds.  She  did  not  avoid  Michael;  she  went  with  him 
willingly  on  this  excursion  or  the  other,  preferring  him  to  the 
strangers  from  the  clubs  or  hotel,  hungry  for  the  talk  that 
led  sometimes  to  Desmond.  Michael  was  ready  to  tell  her  of 
Desmond,  unlikely  to  say  anything  to  wound  her.  If  he  had 
fears  or  misgivings  that  the  boy  was  not  as  steady  as  he  should 
be,  and  kept  bad  company  in  town,  Eunice  was  the  last  person 
in  the  world  to  whom  he  would  convey  it.  He  was  the  type 
of  young  man,  the  best  type,  steady  and  definite,  who  thought 
women  should  know  nothing  of  the  underside  of  life,  should 
be  kept  sweet  and  ignorant  in  their  guarded  homes. 

There  came  a  day  when  he  knew  he  could  wait  no  longer. 
It  was  the  end  of  August,  and  his  holiday  was  coming  to  an 

130 


FULL  SWING  131 

end.  That  morning,  dressing  deliberately  and  carefully  in 
his  grey  suit  and  brown  tie,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  the 
time  had  come  when  she  might  know  he  had  her  aunt's  per- 
mission to  address  her,  his  father's  approval.  He  meant  also 
to  tell  her  he  loved  her,  but  in  all  the  years  to  come  he  would 
show  her  that.  He  saw  her  as  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his 
children ;  his  hand  shook  a  little  when  he  had  finished  tying 
the  brown  bow. 

He  meant  to  keep  himself  well  in  hand,  not  to  startle  her. 
He  was  full  of  tenderness  and  consideration  and  certainty, 
knowing  how  well  he  would  care  for  her. 

Having  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to-day,  Michael  would 
speak,  whether  the  occasion  offered  or  not.  The  occasion  did 
offer.  Lady  Grindelay,  divining  what  he  had  in  his  mind, 
sent  them  out  walking  together  soon  after  breakfast,  saying 
she  had  letters  to  write. 

They  went  along  East  Pentire  toward  the  Gannell  River, 
Eunice  talking  as  usual,  as  if  there  were  nothing  to  differen- 
tiate this  day  from  any  other. 

"Don't  you  think  the  sea  looks  quite  different  on  the 
English  coast  from  the  way  it  does  on  the  French  ?  We  were 
at  Paris  Plage  last  year,  and  it  was  so  much  quieter,  better- 
mannered,  as  if  it  had  lessons  in  deportment — French  lessons." 

When  with  Michael  she  always  felt  she  must  entertain  him 
and  talk  her  best,  although  listening  was  more  to  her  taste. 

She  had  brought  bread  with,  her,  and  now  they  stood  to 
feed  the  seagulls.  Her  undeclared  lover  expatiated  upon  the 
birds'  ill-considered  habit  of  circling  over  refuse.  They 
stood  where  at  low  tide  the  salt  river  ran  almost  dry;  the 
harvest  was  late,  and  fields  of  golden  corn  swayed  on  either 
side;  the  green  hedges  marked  the  boundaries.  Far  in  the 
distance  they  heard  the  swell  of  the  Atlantic.  Where  they 
stood  the  birds  circled  in  their  hundreds. 

"  The  gulls  are  trying  to  teach  the  Gannell  how  to  play, 
saying  '  Come  on,  show  a  little  spirit ;  send  up  some  waves 
and  foam,  don't  you  know  you're  a  part  of  the  sea  ?  ' " 

"I  had  not  observed  that;  it  had  not  struck  me  in  that 
way." 


132  FULL  SWING- 

She  threw  more  breadcrumbs  to  the  birds,  and  they  rose 
and  cawed,  circling  with  pathetic,  weakly  legs  hanging  down, 
and  swaying  wings. 

^'  We  never  do  see  things  the  same  way,  do  we?  "  she  said 
unreflectingly. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that,"  he  answered  gravely. 

She  laughed. 

"  It  isn't  surprising.  You  are  older  than  I  am,  and  you 
know  so  much  more." 

"  I  am  sure  you  know  all  that  a  girl  should." 

"  Do  I  ?  I  feel  very  ignorant  sometimes.  I  always  hated 
lessons.  Auntie  and  you  know  a  hundred  thousand  things 
more  than  I  do.    You  and  she  agree  about  everything." 

Dark  and  purple  was  the  distant  sea,  and  the  sky  a  wind- 
swept blue. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  we  differed  on  any  essential 
points,"  he  began. 

She  laughed  again,  mocking  him  a  little  in  her  quick 
change  of  mood. 

"  How  solemn  you  are  to-day !  We  differ  about  the  gulls, 
don't  we?  You  think  they  flock  here  to  feed  on  impurity, 
because  the  drains  attract  them.  I  think  they  are  having  a 
party,  playing  games,  hide-and-seek  and  puss-in-the-comer, 
dancing." 

"  You  are  fanciful  about  them." 

"  You  are  never  fanciful,  are  you  ?  " 

*'  I  had  hoped  you  found  me  companionable." 

She  was  shocked  at  the  hurt  tone  in  his  voice,  and  hastened 
to  reassure  him ;  she  would  not  for  anything  have  been  found 
lacking  in  courtesy. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  You  know  that.  I  was  only  joking 
about  the  seagulls.  We  have  had  some  nice  talks;  of  course 
I've  found  you  companionable." 

He  had  determined  to  speak  to  her  to-day,  to-morrow  or 
the  next  day  he  must  go  back  to  town.  He  cleared  his  throat, 
took  the  opening  and  said  almost  the  words  he  had  prepared 
before  he  came  out,  appropriate  words. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that — more  than  glad.    You  say  you  have 


FULL  SWING  133 

found  me  companionable  in  a  short  holiday.  I  hope,  on  a 
longer  road,  you  would  not  find  me  less  congenial."  He  fal- 
tered before  the  puzzled  surprise  in  her  eyes,  paused.  His 
stiff  and  formal  words  misrepresented  his  feelings.  He  really 
loved  her  well  and  truly.  She  could  see  some  emotion  in  his 
face,  and  wondered  at  it;  then  had  the  quick  intuition  that 
the  moment  she  had  instinctively  avoided  was  upon  her.  She 
flushed  quickly,  and  would  have  interrupted  with  light  or 
trivial  speech. 

"  We've  been  a  much  longer  road  than  this.  We  walked 
to  the  Mawgan  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  You  will  listen  to  me,  won't  you  ?  "  He  was  almost 
humble.  "  You  know  what  I  want  to  say,  although  I  may 
be  saying  it  badly." 

"  Saying  it  badly ! "  Poor  Michael,  who  had  ever  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  the  Union  or  lesser  debating  societies! 
The  very  doubt  made  for  grace. 

"  Your  aunt  has  given  me  permission  to  speak  to  you. 
My  father  and  sisters  would  welcome  you.  Don't  turn  your 
head  away.    Leave  off  feeding  the  gulls." 

She  threw  her  last  crumb  and  the  paper  bag  to  them, 
and  turned  at  his  request.  His  voice  said  more  than  his  words, 
and  it  was  his  voice  she  answered  impulsively,  her  cheeks 
flushed. 

''Don't  say  any  more,  please;  don't  say  any  more, 
Michael." 

"  I  must." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  hear." 

"You  know  I  am  asking  you  to  marry  me — not  at  once, 
not  until  you  are  ready.  But  to  say  one  day  you  will  be  my 
wife." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  It's  impossible !  "  Never  had  she  looked 
fairer,  nor  her  flushed  face  sweeter.  "  I  am  so  sorry,  Michael, 
more  than  sorry.  Why  did  you  say  it?  You  know  I  don't 
want  to  marry  you.    I  can't." 

"  The  idea  is  new  to  you,  strange." 

"  No,  it  isn't."  The  flush  deepened.  "  I  knew  you  were 
going  to  ask  me.    I  wanted  to  prevent  you." 


134  FULL  SWING 

"  Why  ?  "  He  was  really  a  bad  wooer.  "  You  haven't 
anything  against  me,  have  you  ?  I  can't  take  '  no '  for  an 
answer,  I  really  can't,  I  have  had  this  in  my  mind  so  long. 
You  say  you've  known  it." 

"I  tried  not  to — not  to  believe  it." 

"  But  now  that  you  know  it  is  true."  He  burst  into  truth, 
or  what  he  thought  was  truth.  "I  love  you.  I  can't  live 
without  you." 

Now  he  pleaded,  pleaded  as  well  as  he  knew;  she  could 
not  silence  him,  although  she  tried.  She  resented  the  circum- 
stance, resented  with  a  new  and  sudden  irritability  that  he 
was  here  at  all,  telling  her  that  he  loved  her.  What  had  lain 
warm  and  quiescent  all  these  months  in  her  girlish  heart  was 
again  like  an  expanding  flower.  Her  colour  came  and  went, 
her  breath  was  uneven,  but  not  for  Michael  or  his  pleading. 

"  Your  aunt  and  my  father  are  old  friends.  In  every  way 
it  would  be  suitable." 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,  please  don't  talk  about  it  any  more, 
Michael.  I  don't  mean  to  marry,  at  least  not  for  years  and 
years.  I  don't  want  to  leave  auntie."  Any  excuse  must 
serve.    "  Do  leave  off  talking  about  it." 

"  But  if  she  agrees,  if  she  herself  tells  you  it  is  her  wish  ?  " 

"Nothing  could  make  any  difference."  They  stood  side 
by  side  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  he  broke  out  in 
phrase  less  stilted  than  he  had  used  up  to  now,  more  natural 
altogether. 

"  Give  me  any  reason — any  real  reason.  You  must  leave 
home  one  day.  Marley  will  belong  to  Desmond.  There  isn't 
anyone  you  like  better  than  me,  is  there?  I'm  going  home 
to-morrow ;  I  can't  go  away  and  feel  you  have  decided  against 
me.  You  can't  have  decided  against  me.  Speak  freely,  we 
have  been  good  companions,  the  only  differences  between  us 
are  the  differences  between  any  man  and  girl.  You  are  more 
imaginative,  poetic."  He  was  becoming  desperate.  "  I  know 
I'm  more  matter-of-fact;  I'll  try  and  alter." 

"  It  isn't  that." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  I  have  never  looked  at  another  girl ; 
you  are  the  uttermost  perfection  to  me,  the  sweetest.  .  .  ." 


FULL  SWING  135 

His  voice  went,  but  came  back.  "  Don't  think  I  don't  know 
I'm  unworthy.    Any  man  is  unworthy  of  such  a  girl  as  you." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  such  things." 

"  I  must.  I  don't  think  you  understand.  I  must  make 
you  know  what  this  means  to  me.  For  over  a  year  now  I've 
thought  of  little  else.  Don't  send  me  away,  you  don't  dislike 
me,  do  you  ?    You  said  you  found  me  companionable." 

"  That  isn't  enough !  " 

Her  eyes  were  averted  from  him,  she  was  looking  across 
the  sea  to  the  horizon  where  the  sun  illumined  the  dark 
waters,  and  there  were  visions,  vistas. 

"  It  isn't  enough,  Michael !  It  isn't  enough !  "  she  re- 
peated, and  now  there  was  something  wistful  in  her  eyes,  pas- 
sionate in  her  speech. 

"  What  more  is  it  you  want  ?  "  And  his  words,  too,  were 
passionate.    *'  1  love  you  with  my  whole  heart." 

"  But  I  don't  love  you,"  she  answered.  "  I  can't  help  it. 
I  know  how  good  you  are,  and  kind,  but  love — love  is  differ- 
ent." She  knew  so  well,  young  as  she  was,  she  knew.  ''  Don't 
look  like  that,  Michael.  What  can  I  do?  Love  and  liking 
are  so  different." 

Mystery  and  enchantment  were  in  the  words  he  said :  "  I 
love  you  with  my  whole  heart."  But  as  she  listened  and  felt 
the  thrill  of  them,  it  was  not  Michael  who  was  saying  them. 
She  heard  another's  voice.  Her  eyes  grew  soft  and  filled, 
her  heart  remembered  and  beat  quickly.  Kone  of  the  glad- 
ness and  glow  was  for  Michael,  though  he  went  on  telling 
her  how  greatly  he  cared  for  her.  She  was  hardly  listening, 
she  was  vaguely  sorry  for  him,  but  hardly  listening.  Her 
heart  was  awake,  clamouring,  although  as  yet  she  hardly 
knew  for  what. 

"  Won't  you  give  me  some  hope  ?  When  you  are  older — 
next  year,  perhaps?  I  know  how  young  you  are,  I  am  quite 
content  to  wait." 

It  was  so  unlike  Michael  to  plead ;  his  pleading  seemed  to 
deprive  him  of  dignity.  She  was  sorry  for  him  and  for  his 
lost  dignity. 


136  FULL  SWING 

*'  I  couldn't  feel  any  different  if  you  waited  a  hundred 
years;  really,  I  couldn't." 

"  You  are  not  kind !  "  He  felt  more  than  he  could  express, 
but  her  quickened  sympathy  heard  the  falter  in  his  voice. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind.  Oh,  Michael,  forgive  me; 
don't  be  angry  with  me !  I  could  never  marry  you.  I  can't 
even  bear  to  think  of  your  wanting  me  to.  Don't  you  see, 
don't  you  understand  ?  I  don't  mean  ever  to  marry,  but  if  I 
did  it  would  be  because,  because"  (the  colours  in  her  cheeks 
and  eyes  were  beautiful  and  changing,  reflections  of  the  sea 
and  sky)  "  because  I  cared  for  someone  so  much  that — that  I 
never  wanted  to  be  away  from  him." 

"  You  can't  imagine  yourself  feeling  like  that  with  me  ?  " 

But  he  knew  the  answer  before  it  came  to  him,  low-voiced. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  They  stood  where  they 
were  a  little  while,  still  watching  the  gulls.  Michael  felt 
cold,  and  spoke  of  the  change  in  the  weather : 

"  One  can  never  rely  upon  the  temperature  at  this  time 
of  year." 

"It's  time  we  turned  back,  nearly  lunch  time,  isn't  it?" 

The  matter  was  ended;  they  talked  of  other  things  per- 
sistently until  they  reached  the  hotel.  Michael  was  striving 
to  recapture  that  lost  dignity  of  his.  His  pride  was  wounded, 
but  he  vrished  and  struggled  to  hide  his  wounded  heart.  To 
be  a  rejected  suitor  was  hard  to  bear,  he,  with  all  his  gifts. 
But  to  be  what  he  was — a  rejected  lover — ^hurt  him  a  thousand 
times  more.    She  did  not  need  his  love,  would  have  none  of  it. 

The  alteration  that  knowledge  made  in  Michael  McKay 
was  not  a  thing  that  showed  at  once ;  it  might  have  left  him 
drier,  drained  him  of  feeling.  Instead  it  flowed  inward,  deep- 
ening and  enlarging  him. 

To  face  Lady  Grindelay  with  the  story  of  his  defeat  was 
difficult,  and  he  winced  under  her  sympathj.  When  she  told 
him  that  Eunice  was  too  young  to  know  her  own  mind  he 
shook  his  head.  He  knew  better.  She  was  looking  to  life 
not  only  for  love,  but  romance.  Something  beneath  his  dry 
surface  thrilled  and  taught  him. 


FULL  SWING  137 

His  had  been  no  figure  of  romance  for  her.  He  began 
to  see  that  was  so,  wishing  that  no  one  else  need  know.  All 
his  need  now  was  to  hurry  back  to  the  office,  and  bury  his 
pain  and  discomfiture  in  legal  tomes  and  papers — to  hide 
himself. 

Lady  Grindelay  was  full  of  sympathy  for  him;  her  own 
disappointment  counted  less  than  his,  for  she  at  least  was 
still  able  to  hope.  Just  as  Michael  looked  now,  Andrew  had 
looked  over  thirty  years  ago,  surprising  her,  for  he,  too,  had 
a  cold  manner  and  Scottish  caution.  But  Eunice  would  be 
guarded  from  such  an  error  as  she  had  made  in  rejecting 
Andrew  and  marrying  Lord  Grindelay. 

"  It  will  come  right,  Michael.  Give  her  time,  leave  me  to 
talk  to  her  about  you.  See  how  different  she  will  feel  after 
I  have  talked  to  her." 

But  Michael  packed  for  London  that  night;  he  did  not 
wish  to  see  either  of  them  again  for  a  time. 

As  for  Eunice,  she  was  glad  when  Michael  was  gone.  She 
did  not  want  to  speak  of  what  had  happened.  It  seemed  such 
foolish  talk.  She  and  Michael !  She  remembered  Desmond 
had  warned  her,  and  the  promise  that  had  been  so  unneces- 
sary. She  thought  how  young  and  foolish  she  had  been  a  few 
months  ago,  and  blushed  in  remembering  what  else  Desmond 
had  said  to  her  when  they  were  under  the  trees  at  Marley. 
It  had  been  hibernating  in  her  heart  all  that  summer,  and 
could  never  sleep  again. 

Lady  Grindelay  waited,  and  in  the  end  forced  her  con- 
fidence. Eunice  did  not  want  to  speak,  was  not  ready  for 
speech.  And  the  confidence  that  was  forced  was  only  a  half 
confidence;  her  speech  closed  down  again  like  the  leaves  of  a 
night  flower  forced  open  by  some  rude  hand  before  the  dark- 
ness comes. 

"  Poor  Michael !  His  holiday  was  cut  sadly  short.  You 
were  not  very  kind  to  him,  I  fear." 

"  He  was  silly." 

"  I  told  him  you  were  still  young,  you  might  change  your 
mind." 


138  FULL  SWING 

"  I  couldn't  marr}'  Michael/'  Eunice  said  hurriedly, 
shamefacedly.     "  I  could  never  marry  Michael." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It's  impossible !  "     She  did  not  want  to  explain. 

Lady  Grindelay  spoke  of  Michael's  high  character,  fine 
qualities.  Eunice  grew  hot  in  saying  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  She  was  sure  Michael  was  all  that  her  aunt  said. 
Agatha  wanted  to  get  into  the  girl's  mind  and  guide  it.  She 
was  a  little  jarred  and  repelled  by  what  she  was  being  told. 

"  Congenial  tastes,  characteristics,  sympathies  are  what 
make  a  happy  marriage." 

"  But  there  is  something  else.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me  what  is  in  your  mind  against  this  marriage. 
To  have  won  Michael's  regard,  his  great  regard,  is  something 
of  which  to  be  proud.  Are  you  not  proud  of  it?  You  are 
little  more  than  a  child.    Michael  is  a  good  man." 

"  I  want  to  stay  with  you,"  there  was  quite  a  pause,  and 
when  she  added  two  words  her  voice  was  low,  "with  you 
and  Desmond." 

"  With  you  and  Desmond ! " 

Lady  Grindelay  could  have  won  the  confidence  she  would 
have  forced.  She  had  but  to  yield  her  prejudices,  open  her 
eyes  to  what  was  before  her,  and  open  them  wide  and  toler- 
antly. One  word  now,  and  all  the  unhappy  future  could 
have  been  averted.  What  her  son  had  told  her  the  girl  at  her 
knee  was  repeating.  She  need  do  nothing,  only  stand  aside, 
let  them  take  their  own  lives  in  their  own  hands — follow 
nature. 

But  she  deemed  her  conscience  and  her  duty  were  in- 
volved. "Intolerant  Agatha"  her  husband  had  often  called 
her.  She  had  not  grown  less  so  as  the  years  rolled  on,  con- 
firming her  in  place  and  power.  "  With  you  and  Desmond," 
the  girl  whispered. 

Why  not?  What  could  have  been  better?  The  girl  for 
whom  she  had  made  herself  responsible  to  stay  for  ever  in 
the  home  she  loved  with  the  son  who  should  inherit  it !  But 
she  had  decided  that  Eunice  should  marry  Michael.  She 
owed  his  father  that,  and  to  Monica's  child  safeguarding  from 


FULL  SWING  139 

danger.  Love  was  almost  a  myth  to  her — sex  love..  Desmond 
was  too  young  to  know  his  own  mind.  Her  husband  had  told 
her  how  often  he  had  been  in  love. 

"I  don't  suppose  Desmond  will  come  back  to  Marley  for 
any  length  of  time,  at  least.  You  can  stay  on  with  me,  of 
course,  always,  if  you  don't  wish  to  marry.  But  Desmond 
will,  I  hope,  be  with  his  regiment." 

The  low  voice  persisted.  The  girl  had  been  forced  into 
speaking,  and  now  she  could  not  be  silent. 

"  But  when  he  is  older  ?    When  he  comes  home  for  good  ?  " 

Eunice  could  not  say  all  there  was  in  her  mind.  She  was 
too  shy,  and  he  had  given  her  no  title  to  speak.  At  Whitsun- 
tide he  had  been  quite  different.  But  she  never  faltered  in 
her  allegiance  to  Desmond.  She  began  to  speak  again  pres- 
ently, hurriedly,  to  defend,  to  explain  him. 

Agatha  said,  a  little  coldly,  that  there  was  no  doubt 
Eunice  thought  she  knew  Desmond  better  than  his  own 
mother  did,  and  had  a  spasm  of  pain  lest  it  might  be  true. 

But  Eunice's  love  was  young  and  tender  and  defenceless; 
she  could  not  even  talk  about  it.  He  had  given  her  no  title ; 
he  had  said  nothing  at  Whitsuntide.  Agatha  went  on,  half 
hurt,  and  half  because  she  knew  no  better. 

'*  Give  up  any  idea  of  Desmond,  be  guided  by  me,  you 
may  be  sure  I  have  only  your  interest  at  heart.  You  must  let 
me  judge  for  you." 

There  may  have  been  jealousy  in  it,  a  natural  jealousy; 
but  if  so,  she  was  unaware  of  it.  She  thought  only  that  it 
would  be  years,  if  ever,  before  Desmond  would  be  fit  for 
responsibility,  and  that  it  was  she  who  would  guide  him  all 
these  years.  Eunice  must  marry  Michael  because  the  promise 
had  been  given  to  Andrew.  But  she  did  not  wish  the  girl  to 
be  unhappy  or  feel  ill-used,  meant  to  be  kind  to  her.  She 
thought  Eunice  would  be  easy  to  persuade,  it  was  Eunice 
herself  who  gave  her  that  impression. 

Whatever  the  girl's  feelings  were  toward  her  cousin  at  this 
time  they  were  immature  feelings,  young  and  tender,  igno- 
rant, half-ashamed.  She  could  not  argue  with  her  aunt,  nor 
express  herself  clearly. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

Whilst  Michael  was  conducting  his  ill-fated  wooing'  in  Corn- 
wall, Desmond  was  spending  his  monotonous  six  weeks  at 
Bognor. 

Anyone  who  knows  anything  ahout  reading  parties  knows 
that  they  are  not  exhilarating.  Blathwayt  Bird  managed  to 
get  a  certain  amount  of  work  done,  but  he  was  suffering  from 
one  of  his  recurrent  attacks  of  ill-health,  and  left  his  five  or 
six  young  men  very  much  to  their  own  devices.  Pretty  poor 
devices  they  were:  ogling  young  ladies  on  the  sands;  going 
aimless  walks;  playing  nap;  taking  part  in  a  weekly  cricket 
match  where  the  local  clergyman  umpired,  and  looked  after 
his  local  team  so  well  that  the  stumps  had  to  fly  before  the 
batsman  retired.  Everyone  was  glad  to  go  back  to  town, 
Desmond  no  less  than  the  others. 

In  London  he  had  a  hurried  glimpse  of  his  mother  and 
Eunice.  They  stayed  in  London  one  night  on  their  way  from 
Cornwall.  They  were  not  returning  to  Marley,  but  going 
to  Biarritz  for  the  month  of  September  and  part  of  October. 
"  You'll  have  passed  by  the  time  we  get  back.'' 
"  Anyway,  the  beastly  examination  will  be  over." 
He  dined  with  them  at  their  hotel,  and  saw  them  off  from 
Victoria  the  next  day.  He  had  nothing  to  say  to  Eunice, 
apparently,  nor  she  to  him.  If  they  had,  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity. Lady  Grindelay  talked  of  Cornish  scenery,  and  of  the 
new  travelling  maid  she  had  secured — a  treasure  who  spoke 
several  languages,  and  could  be  trusted  to  see  them  through 
the  various  custom-houses.  She  lamented  that  Eunice  spoke 
no  Spanish,  and  hoped  her  French  would  prove  useful.  She 
gave  Desmond  a  handsome  cheque  and  told  him  he  was  not 
to  grudge  himself  anything,  suggested  he  should  buy  a  horse, 
and  ride  in  the  Park  in  the  mornings. 

"  We  shall  be  back  before  you  go  to  Sandhurst.  You  must 
keep  yourself  well." 

140 


FULL  SWING  141 

She  seemed  to  have  no  doubt  he  would  get  through. 
Affairs  in  South  Africa  were  farther  than  ever  from  a  settle- 
ment. 

Desmond  did  manage  to  ask  Eunice  if  McKay  had  been  in 
Cornwall  all  the  time  they  were  there;  and,  of  course, 
interpreted  the  blush  and  hesitation  of  the  affirmative  reply. 
He  thought  she  had  forgotten  all  they  had  said  to  each  other 
in  the  wood.  She  thought  he  had.  But  neither  of  them  was 
quite  sure.  He  asked  his  mother  if  Michael  McKay  was  to 
be  at  Biarritz,  and  she  replied  without  reflection : 

"Very  probably." 

But  this  was  after  she  had  taken  her  seat  in  the  railway 
carriage,  and  was  testing  the  value  of  her  new  treasure,  who 
had  actually  given  her  a  cushion  for  her  back,  the  tea-basket 
as  a  footstool,  and  was  inquiring  if  she  would  like  a  book  or 
a  paper. 

When  he  walked  out  of  the  station  Desmond  had  the  idea 
that  if  he  failed  to  pass  he  would  not  face  them;  he  would 
either  enlist  or  cut  his  throat.  He  had  the  feeling  his  mother 
was  standing  successfully  between  him  and  Eunice,  that  he 
was  as  much  under  her  sway  as  the  servants  at  Marley  Court, 
the  villagers  at  Little  Marley.  He  owed  her  even  his  income. 
Languedoc  was  only  an  expense.    He  hated  his  dependence. 

Very  soon,  too,  he  heard  how  well  Biarritz  suited  them  all, 
and  that  they  were  going  on  to  San  Sebastian  when  the 
weather  grew  cooler. 

His  own  letters  were  short.  He  said  he  was  busy  working, 
and  for  a  short  time  after  their  departure  this  was  true. 
Even  Blathwayt  Bird  was  heard  to  say  young  Grindelay  was 
waking  up ;  if  he  could  catch  the  examiners  napping,  he  might 
get  through,  that  is,  if  he  could  keep  it  up.  But  he  doubted 
that,  and  the  doubt  was  not  helpful  to  Desmond.  Neither 
was  the  weather,  it  was  very  damp  and  muggy,  raining  con- 
tinuously, affecting  his  spirits.  It  should  have  been  a  time 
of  growth  with  the  boy,  but  all  the  growth  was  blocked  and 
stifled. 

Two  weeks  before  the  examination  he  caught  cold.  When 
the  cold  was  pronounced  influenza.,  he  was  glad  of  the  excuse 


142  FUMi  SWING 

it  gave  him  to  remain  in  bed.  Blathwayt  would  "  rot  him  " 
about  staying  in  bed  for  a  cold,  however  badly  his  head 
ached,  or  his  limbs,  but  an  attack  of  influenza  justified  him. 
Besides,  the  doctor  insisted,  and  he  had  neither  the  power 
nor  the  inclination  to  resist. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  house  whose  duty  it  was  to  attend 
to  Desmond.  Blathwayt  Bird  never  thought  anyone  could  be 
ill  but  himself,  or  that  it  mattered  if  anyone  else  should  be. 
Influenza  was  a  trivial  complaint,  almost  childish,  an  affair 
of  forty-eight  hours.  Nevertheless,  in  accordance  with  his 
duty,  he  wrote  to  Lady  Grindelay,  making  light  of  the  attack. 

"  He  will  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  no  doubt ;  in  any 
case,  I  think  Ave  are  through  the  worst."  He  was  alluding 
to  the  coaching  and  not  to  the  illness.  "  I  think  he  will  get 
through,  although  it  has  been  a  hard  fight;  he  has  shown 
himself  much  more  industrious  lately." 

Desmond,  on  the  third  or  fourth  day  of  his  illness,  asked 
if  his  mother  had  been  written  to.  The  doctor  was  able  to 
assure  him  this  had  been  done.  It  was  after  the  symptoms  of 
pneumonia  developed  that  he  got  a  letter  from  her.  It  urged 
him  to  make  a  last  effort. 

"  Mr.  Bird  writes  me  that  the  next  fortnight  is  all-impor- 
tant. I  hope  you  have  thrown  off  your  chill  and  are  working 
with  all  your  power." 

"  Wire  her  I'm  all  right,"  he  said  feebly  to  the  nurse,  only 
installed  a  couple  of  hours.  '"Tell  her  I  won't  write  again 
until  after  the  examination.  I  can't  have  her  bothering  me 
now." 

The  nurse  soothed  him,  thought  already  it  was  impor- 
tant he  should  not  be  bothered,  wrote  out  the  telegram  accord- 
ing to  his  wish,  signed  it  with  his  name : 

"  Getting  on  all  right.    Writing  later. — ^Desmond/' 

It  seemed  inadequate,  but  he  was  unable  to  think  of  any- 
thing better  to  say.  He  was  running  into  illness — serious 
illness,  and  already  his  mind  was  a  little  obscured. 

Under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Bird  wrote  again  to^rard 


FULL  SWING  143 

the  end  of  the  week.  But  he  still  did  not  believe  that  young 
Lord  Grindelay  was  really  ill.  He  thought  the  doctor  was 
probably  desirous  of  running  up  an  account. 

"Influenza  is  rife  in  London  at  the  moment.  Desmond 
has  had  a  sharp  attack,  apparently,  but  when  this  reaches  you 
he  should  be  well  on  the  road  to  recovery." 

She  telegraphed  when  she  got  this  letter,  and  also  to 
Marley,  directing  that  hothouse  grapes  and  other  fruit  should 
be  sent  to  Lord  Grindelay.  By  this  time  Nurse  Radlett  had 
listened  to  the  young  Irish  peer  in  delirium,  when  his  mind 
was  wandering.  It  may  be  supposed  that  she  had  formed 
her  plan,  or  some  plan.  Already  she  knew  she  wanted  no  one 
to  come  between  her  and  her  patient.  Again  she  sent  a  reas- 
suring telegram.  And  Agatha  was  reassured,  taking  it  for 
granted  Desmond  was  back  at  work;  the  test  time  was 
imminent. 

Nurse  Radlett  informed  herself  that  Desmond,  Lord 
Grindelay,  was  an  only  son,  and  that  the  Languedoc  acres 
were  many;  as  to  their  condition  or  value,  she  made  no  in- 
quiries, taking  them  on  trust.  She  had  the  young  man  en- 
tirely to  herself,  to  nurse  or  influence.  The  institution 
hummed  with  industry  as  the  final  days  approached,  rustled 
with  papers  and  the  loud  voice  of  Blathwayt  Bird.  No  one 
had  time  to  think  of  the  doubtful  pupil,  who  might  have  got 
a  place,  though  only  a  low  one,  reflecting  no  credit  on  the 
establishment.  He  was  important  to  no  one  in  Netting  Hill 
but  Nurse  Radlett;  to  her  he  was  of  ever-growing  interest 
as  the  days  went  on. 

Desmond's  temperature  went  up  and  up,  and  in  low  mut- 
tered delirium  Nurse  Radlett  heard  of  Eunice  and  Michael, 
of  his  mother's  bad  opinion  of  him,  and  his  own  self-doubt. 
Desmond,  usually  so  reticent  and  reserved,  in  his  delirium 
let  that  ultra-intelligent  nurse  into  many  of  the  secret  places 
of  his  wounded  sensitiveness. 

Nurse  Radlett,  red-haired,  and  attractive  in  her  white  cap 
and  apron  and  neat  uniform,  thoroughly  capable  and  certif- 
icated, sat  up  with  Desmond  at  night  and  tended  him  by 
day,  proving  herself  not  only  competent  but  indefatigable  in 


144  FULiL  SWING- 

attention,  unwearyingly  kind.  She  could  hardly  be  per- 
suaded to  her  daily  walk,  and  came  back  bringing  a  bunch  of 
violets,  or  a  newspaper,  oranges  that  suited  him  better  than 
the  Marley  grapes,  stories  to  beguile  the  weary  hours.  She 
relieved  his  pains  with  poultices  and  steam  kettle,  his  sleep- 
lessness with  drugs,  his  weakness  and  depression  with  many 
nursing  expedients.  He  had  had  no  illness  before  this,  except 
infantile  ones  under  Biddy's  care.  Nurse  Radlett  was  much 
more  competent  than  Biddy,  as  he  remembered  her  nursing. 
Desmond  was  really  very  ill  for  a  short  time,  was  nearer  to 
danger,  and  even  to  death,  than  anybody  but  the  nurse  and 
doctor  ever  knew.  Desmond  himself  knew  it  only  when  the 
danger  was  past.  Then  he  heard  that  no  one  had  inquired  for 
him,  that  no  one  had  been  interested  in  what  became  of  him. 
No  one  but  Nurse  Eadlett !  It  was  already  September  when 
he  was  well  enough  to  realise  this.  There  was  no  question 
now  of  his  being  well  enough  to  go  up  for  his  examination. 
But  Blathwayt  Bird  was  so  busy  putting  the  final  polish  on 
those  boys  who  were  sure  to  do  him  credit,  and  keep  up  his 
average,  that  he  even  forgot  to  write  to  Lady  Grindelay.  She 
took  it  for  granted  Desmond  was  up  at  Sandhurst  plodding 
through  his  papers. 

Nurse  Radlett,  quite  aware  of  what  was  in  her  patient's 
mind,  why  he  inquired  for  letters  so  constantly  and  was 
depressed  and  cast  down  by  their  absence,  asked  him  one 
day  carelessly  if  Miss  Eunice  Fellowes  was  not  a  cousin  of 
his ;  told  him,  as  if  she  knew  no  better  than  that  it  was  good 
news,  that  she  had  just  read  the  announcement  of  her 
engagement  to  a  Mr.  McKay. 

"  I  should  have  thought  your  mother  would  have  looked 
higher  for  her.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  a  country  place  at 
all.  It  only  gives  a  London  address — Campden  Hill — it 
doesn't  seem  he  is  anyone  in  particular." 

Desmond,  laid  very  low  by  the  influenza  and  subsequent 
pneimionia,  never  asked  her  in  what  paper  she  had  seen  the 
announcement,  never  asked  to  look  at  it  or  for  confirmation 
of  the  news.  She  had  reckoned  on  this.  He  went  very  pale 
when  she  gave  him  the  news,  and  she  took  the  pillow  from 


FULL  SWING  145 

under  his  head,  made  him  lie  flat,  and  talked  about  the  heat 
of  the  room. 

He  never  doubted  the  story,  never  dreamed  his  good, 
kind,  attentive  nurse  could  so  deceive  him.  He  had  been  very 
ill,  and  nobody  had  written  or  inquired  for  him.  Much  that 
happened  in  those  worst  days  of  his  illness  was  always  con- 
fused in  his  mind.  He  only  remembered  the  chill  sense  of 
desolation  that  fell  upon  him  then,  heralding  a  sharp  relapse. 

Afterwards  he  knew  Nurse  Radlett  was  always  there,  soft- 
handed  and  gentle.  One  day  he  saw  that  she  was  crying,  and 
lay  wondering  feebly  as  to  the  cause  of  her  tears.  He  asked 
if  he  was  going  to  die.  She  hesitated  before  saying  "  No," 
came  over  to  the  bed,  and  put  a  hand  on  his  pulse.  He  could 
see  her  eyes  were  moist. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  so  weak." 

Desmond  had  no  idea  how  weak  he  was  imtil  she  told  him 
of  it. 

She  made  the  pillows  more  comfortable,  lifting  him  so  that 
his  head  lay  against  her  breast  a  moment. 

*'  You  are  not  to  worry  about  what  I  was  crying  for.  Who 
told  you  I  was  crying  ?  " 

"I  saw  you.  Am  I  going  to  die?  Tell  me  the  truth. 
I  don't  care.    Nobody  cares." 

Every  day  he  asked,  and  every  day  he  was  told  nobody 
had  inquired  after  him — that  there  .were  no  letters  from 
Biarritz. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  die  if  I  can  keep  you  here." 

"  I  am  very  bad,  then  ?  " 

''You  must  not  talk."  A  cool,  soft  hand  was  laid  upon 
his  hot  forehead  and  over  his  fevered  eyes.  "  I  am  going  to 
pull  you  through  if  I  have  to  watch  day  and  night.  You 
won't  die  for  want  of  care." 

He  lay  and  thought  what  would  happen  if  he  were  to  die. 
It  seemed  an  easy  way  out  of  his  troubles.  He  would  never 
pass  any  examinations,  he  could  not  retain  names  or  dates  in 
his  woolly  head;  he  was  no  good.  He  felt  very  tired,  and  it 
seemed  that  nothing  mattered.  But  Nurse  Radlett  let  him 
see,  never  ceased  to  let  him  see,  that  to  her  at  any  rate  he  was 
10 


146  FULL  SWING 

all-important.  They  were  alone  together  all  the  time  save 
for  the  visits  of  the  doctor  and  short  ones  from  one  or  another 
of  the  boys  or  over-worked  teaching  staff.  The  house  emptied 
suddenly,  and  now  everyone  was  at  Woolwich  or  Sandliurst, 
Oxford  or  Cambridge,  or  Burlington  House.  Nurse  Eadlett 
had  no  one  to  interfere  with  her.  Desmond  for  the  moment 
was  without  spring  or  initiative,  his  vitality  low.  His  treat- 
ment had  been  old-fashioned.  He  had  been  given  too  many 
drugs,  too  little  air  and  food  and  moral  stimulant.  It  suited 
neither  nurse  nor  doctor  that  he  should  get  well  too  quickly. 
They  were  not  in  league,  but  their  interests  were  identical. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  troubles ;  I  am  so  sick  of  lying  here 
thinking  of  my  own."  This  was  a  few  days  after  he  had 
watched  her  crying  and  inquired,  stupidly  enough,  whether  it 
was  because  he  was  going  to  die.  His  mind  was  clearer  now ; 
he  knew  what  an  absurd  hypothesis  that  had  been. 

"  I've  seen  you  crying  more  than  once.  Is  anybody  you 
care  about  ill  ?  I've  been  awfully  ill,  haven't  I  ?  Neither  my 
mother  nor  cousin  has  written  or  sent.  Is  someone  ill  belong- 
ing to  you?    Tell  me  about  it." 

"  You  know  nobody  could  have  been  worse  than  you  were 
— nobody  who  has  ever  got  better." 

"It  wasn't  about  me  you  were  crying  that  night.  Who 
were  you  crying  about  ?  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  have  been  about  you  ?  " 

She  was  standing  by  the  side  of  his  bed.  There  had  been 
nights,  or  hours,  when  he  could  not  bear  that  she  should 
stand  anywhere  else,  when  she  had  been  his  only  hold  in  a 
world  that  swayed  deliriously  about  him,  with  voids  into 
which  he  sank,  sick  darknesses  when  the  cold  sweat  broke  out 
upon  his  forehead,  and  he  swung  breathless  over  fathomless 
pits.  He  only  felt  safety  when  he  found  her  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  forehead,  when  he  found  himself  clutching 
her  dress  or  apron. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  have  been,  crying  about  you?" 

"Were  you?" 

It  seemed  wonderful.  No  one  else  cared.  He  could  still 
hardly  move  in  bed.    She  stooped  even  now  and  raised  him 


FULL  SWING  147 

in  her  strong,  helpful  arms,  pillowing  his  head  more  com- 
fortably. 

"  Don't  you  think  one  can  get  fond  of  a  patient  ?  " 

"^  Not  of  one  like  me." 

"  Why  not  of  one  like  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  much  of  a  fellow." 

"  You  haven't  had  a  good  time  ?  " 

"  Rotten."    He  spoke  shortly. 

"  Poor  boy !  "  She  answered  briefly,  but  there  was  a  world 
of  sympathy  in  her  voice.  "  I  knew  you  were  unhappy,"  she 
said  under  her  breath,  as  if  she  were  guessing  and  sorry  to 
have  guessed  right. 

"  Bid  you  ever  see  anyone  as  lonely  in  a  bad  illness  as  I've 
been  ?  "  His  voice  choked ;  he  turned  his  head  away  from  her 
and  hid  it  in  the  pillow.  On  the  pretence  of  moving  him 
into  a  more  comfortable  position,  she  rested  his  head  on  to 
her  breast. 

That  night,  when  she  lay  on  the  sofa  in  his  room  in  her 
blue  dressing-gown,  her  red  hair  unbound — an  aureole,  as  it 
were,  about  her — she  began  to  talk  about  loneliness;  she  said 
she  could  imderstand  so  well  what  he  was  going  through, 
having  suffered  herself. 

He  was  restless  that  night  and  could  not  sleep.  The  night- 
light  burned  low,  and  the  fire,  too.  They  were  intimately  and 
extraordinarily  alone  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  Nurse 
Eadlett  began  to  tell  him  the  story  of  her  life.  He  listened ; 
he  could  not  sleep,  and  anything  was  better  than  going  over 
and  over  again  the  reasons  that  had  led  Eunice  to  leave  off 
writing  to  him,  to  engage  herself  to  Michael  McKay.  Of 
course,  she  would  never  marry  Michael ;  he  had  her  promise. 
She  had  engaged  herself  to  him  to  please  his  mother,  who 
had  persuaded  her  to  it.  It  would  be  all  right  if  he  passed 
his  examination;  not  that  he  would  ever  pass.  Better  than 
such  thoughts  as  these,  coming  and  going,  keeping  him  from 
sleep,  making  him  turn  over  and  then  back  again  in  his  hot 
and  restless  bed,  was  Nurse  Radlett's  talk.  She  seemed  to 
have  had  a  rotten  time  too.    He  began  to  listen,  even  to  be 


148  FULL  SWING 

interested.  Anything  was  better  than  lying  here  thinking 
of  Eunice  and  Michael. 

There  were  many  nights  before  he  heard  the  worst  thing 
that  had  befallen  his  good  nurse.  By  the  time  he  learnt  this 
he  was  already  overwhelmingly  sorry  for  her.  He  could  not 
read,  he  was  sick  of  his  thoughts,  the  days  were  longer  than 
the  nights.  He  missed  her  when  she  was  out  of  the  room, 
when  she  went  for  her  daily  walk  or  rest;  there  was  nothing 
to  do  when  she  was  not  there.  She  offered  never  to  go  out, 
said  she  wanted  no  rest.  He  began  to  realise  that  she  had 
grown  fond  of  him,  to  be  glad  about  it — grateful.  She  kept 
him  partially  drugged,  having  the  doctor's  authority  for  this, 
since  these  restless,  wakeful  nights,  as  she  described  them, 
were  retarding  his  recovery.  So  she  said,  and  the  doctor 
thought  it  more  than  likely.  Veronal,  chloral,  the  various 
bromides  were  tried.  Desmond's  brain  did  not  gain  in  lucidity 
under  the  treatment. 

"  You  are  lucky  in  having  such  a  devoted  nurse,"  the 
doctor  told  him. 

"  I  know  I  am,"  he  answered  gratefully,  weakly,  indefin- 
ably moved. 

He  knew  it.  She  stopped  awake  at  nights  to  talk  to  him 
and  hardly  left  him  in  the  day.  He  owed  his  life  to  her;  his 
own  people  had  not  cared.  Talking  of  her  troubles  because 
he  begged  her  to,  saying  it  took  his  mind  off  his  own,  she 
began  to  tell  him  something  of  the  perils  to  which  young  girls 
were  exposed  when  they  were  trying  to  earn  a  living  for  them- 
selves, told  him  of  temptations,  enlarged  upon  them,  stirred 
his  quickening  sympathy,  his  imagination. 

The  warm  room,  lit  by  the  night-light  and  the  low  fire, 
became  full  of  man's  unbridled  passions,  woman's  defenceless- 
ness.  She  talked  from  the  distance  of  the  sofa  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  but  the  time  came  when  she  had  to  give  him 
food  or  medicine,  when  she  went  over  to  his  side,  sat  there, 
and  after  she  had  taken  glass  or  cup  away,  went  on  talking. 
In  her  blue  dressing-gown,  with  hair  unbound,  she  looked 
like  a  girl — one  of  those  girls  of  whom  she  had  been  talking. 

"What  would  you  think  of  me,  what  would  you  say  of 


FULL  SWING  149 

me,  if — if ?  "    Her  head  went  down  on  the  quilt,  and  he 

heard  her  asking  him  what  he  would  think  of  her  if  she  had 
been  like  one  of  those  girls,  had  been  tempted,  fallen.  He 
caught  the  sob  as  if  it  were  in  his  own  throat,  put  a  weak  hand 
on  her  soft  hair;  only  to  comfort  her,  only  to  tell  her  he 
would  think  no  worse  of  her,  to  remind  her  of  what  she  had 
been  to  him,  of  his  gratitude  that  nothing  could  ever  alter. 

"  I  was  too  young  to  protect  myself." 

Then  he  heard  from  her  of  temperament,  of  what  girls 
suffered;  it  was  new  talk  to  him.  She  made  him  go  red  in 
the  dusk. 

One  night  was  like  another,  only  her  talk  became  less  and 
less  restrained.  He  discovered  in  himself  the  restlessness  of 
which  she  spoke,  turning  the  current  of  his  thoughts  by  the 
things  she  told  him.  He  left  off  thinking  of  Eunice,  pur- 
posely left  off.  She  was  not  for  such  talk  as  this,  nor  for  such 
restlessness.  He  began  to  understand  better  what  Gabrielle 
meant  by  "  temperament "  and  "  suffering."  She  asked  him 
to  call  her  Gabrielle.  There  seemed  no  harm  in  letting  her 
lie  beside  him  as  she  talked,  her  red  hair  fragrant  and  soft 
against  her  face.  She  made  no  secret  of  having  got  to  care 
for  him,  she  played  her  part  with  adroitness,  subtlety,  and  a 
knowledge  of  men  not  gained  in  one  adventure,  but  in  many. 
Yet  to  stir  his  blood  was  difficult.  To  move  his  pity,  his 
young  chivalry,  was  easier;  and  it  was  on  that  she  concen- 
trated presently.  The  time  came  when  he  told  her  he  would 
never  be  like  other  men,  never  take  advantage  of  her  defence- 
lessness. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Desmond  "was  nursed  into  convalescence  by  Nurse  Gabrielle 
Radlett.  She  went  with  him  to  Torquay  when  the  doctor 
agreed  with  her  that  change  of  air  was  necessary  for  the 
patient. 

Yet,  when  during  that  October,  war  was  declared,  and 
Lady  Grindelay  and  Eunice  came  hurrying  back  from  Biar- 
ritz, nothing  had  happened  that  was  irrevocable.  Eunice 
was  not  engaged  to  Michael,  had  not  even  seen  him  since  they 
parted  by  the  Gannell  River,  nor  was  Desmond  so  entangled 
with  Gabrielle  that  he  could  not  have  freed  himself  when  he 
knew  it.  His  mother's  hands  were  to  rivet  the  chains  upon 
him — ^her  nervous,  bungling  hands. 

Desmond  was  not  at  the  station  to  welcome  them,  nor  at 
the  furnished  house  Lady  Grindelay  had  rented  for  the 
winter.  In  some  anxiety  the  day  after  her  return  Lady  Grin- 
delay drove  up  to  Notting  Hill.  And  there  she  heard  with 
astonishment,  which  rapidly  gave  way  to  indignation,  of  how 
much  more  serious  Desmond's  illness  had  been  than  she  knew, 
and  that  he  had  been  sent  to  the  seaside  with  a  nurse  by  the 
doctor's  orders.  Blathwayt  Bird  was  callous  to  her  indigna- 
tion. He  was  satisfied  the  boy  had  not  the  opportunity  of 
failure.  Another  coaching  genius  had  appeared  on  the 
horizon,  and  the  two  of  them  were  racing  for  averages. 

Lady  Grindelay  was  the  very  type  that  aggravated  Blath- 
wayt Bird's  socialism  into  extravagance  and  unreason.  Not 
only  did  she  bear  about  her  an  indefinable  air  of  birth  and 
good  breeding,  but  she  had  the  absurdity  of  a  title,  and  the 
reputation  and  appearance  of  wealth.  He  thought  her  manner 
patronising,  and  now  she  had  the  impertinence  to  upbraid 
him. 

"  I  understood  from  you  my  son's  illness  was  only  slight, 
that  he  had  recovered  two  weeks  ago,"  Lady  Grindelay  ex- 

150 


FULL  SWING  151 

claimed  when  she  was  told  Desmond  was  not  there,  but  in 
Torquay  with  a  nurse. 

" Did  I  tell  you  so?  Well,  I  didn't  think  it  of  much  im- 
portance," Blathwayt  answered  calmly.  He  had  been  wheeled 
into  the  room  in  his  invalid  chair,  and  pretended  at  first  to 
have  forgotten  what  had  become  of  young  Lord  Grindelay, 
and  whether  he  was  in  the  house  or  not.  "  See  what  the  young 
rip  is  doing/'  he  said  to  his  secretary.  "  Oh,  I  remember 
now ! " 

He  behaved  outrageously,  as  was  his  wont  when  the 
humour  seized  him.  When  his  interlocutor  expressed  her 
indignation  his  behaviour  became  worse,  for  he  suggested 
that  Desmond  had  prolonged  and  exaggerated  his  illness  to 
avoid  his  work.  And  he  added,  with  something  of  a  chuckle, 
that  there  might  be  more  in  it  than  met  the  eye. 

"He's  got  a  pretty,  red-haired  nurse,  the  young  rascal, 
and  they've  gone  off  to  Torquay  together.  I  shouldn't  send 
after  him  if  I  were  you;  I  should  wait  until  he  came  back. 
He's  not  the  first  lad  to  cut  loose  from  his  mother's  apron- 
strings." 

Agatha  could  not  even  wait  to  hear  more.  She  was  worse 
than  angry  at  thinking  she  had  placed  Desmond  in  such 
hands. 

Dr.  Ashford  put  a  different  complexion  on  the  matter, 
and  showed  a  series  of  temperature  charts.  He  said  he 
understood  that  Lady  Grindelay  had  been  kept  informed, 
although  on  one  occasion  he  had  suggested  a  telegram  being 
sent  to  her. 

"One  lung  haa  still  a  little  delicacy,  a  little  dullness. 
Certainly,  I  advised  he  should  go  to  the  sea.  As  for  the  nurse, 
she  is  a  most  able  young  woman.  He  was  quite  unfit  to  be 
alone." 

She  telegraphed  immediately  to  Desmond  at  Torquay, 
announcing  their  return,  and  that  she  was  ready  to  come  to 
him.  He  replied  that  he  was  completely  recovered,  and  would 
prefer  to  Join  them  in  London. 

When,  after  further  delay,  he  came,  she  found  him  grown 
and  very  thin.    He  was  impatient,  and  even  a  little  irritable 


153  FULL  SWING 

when  questioned  about  his  health,  and  with  difficulty  she  per- 
suaded him  to  allow  his  lungs  to  be  examined. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me/'  he  said.  And, 
indeed,  the  eminent  specialist  she  consulted  could  find  little 
to  justify  Lady  Grindelay's  anxiety.  He  said  Desmond  had 
perhaps  overgrown  his  strength. 

"  We  never  thought  he  was  going  to  be  so  tall,  did  we  ?  " 
Eunice  said  when  she  heard  the  favourable  report. 

"  Desmond  is  going  to  more  than  justify  all  our  hopes," 
Lady  Grindelay  answered,  trying  to  chase  the  gloom  from  his 
face. 

"  Like  getting  into  the  Army,"  he  scoffed.  For  now  that 
war  was  declared  he  hated  himself  for  being  outside. 

Desmond,  just  now,  was  suffering  from  a  horrible  sense 
of  unworthiness.  He  knew  that  Eunice  was  not  engaged 
to  Michael.  But  he  could  scarcely  bear  to  look  at  or  speak  to 
her.  Gabrielle  Kadlett  was  between  them;  what  in  him  had 
been  plastic  to  her  moulding  was  something  with  which 
Eunice  must  not  be  soiled.  His  unhappiness  at  the  position 
was  perhaps  excessive.  For  it  was  not  too  late  to  extricate 
himself,  in  this  first  week  of  his  mother's  and  Eunice's  home- 
coming. He  realised  this  presently,  and  made  a  desperate 
attempt  to  avert  the  doom  that  was  settling  over  him.  But  it 
was  like  the  forlorn  hope  he  was  to  lead  later,  and  to  meet 
with  no  better  result.  Only  here  his  mother  was  his  enemy, 
a  friendly  and  diplomatic  foe,  most  difficult  to  fight. 

Desmond  seemed  rather  to  avoid  Eunice  than  otherwise. 
His  mother  could  scarcely  bear  him  out  of  her  sight.  She 
was  desperately  concerned  about  his  health,  and  when  the 
doctors  had  reassured  her,  yet  more  desperately  concerned 
about  his  happiness.  She  became  convinced  that  it  was  his 
failure  to  pass  into  the  Army  that  was  on  his  mind,  and 
decided  that  something  must  be  done  in  the  matter.  She  came 
to  that  conclusion  one  night,  when,  on  the  advice  of  an  old 
lady  who  ought  to  have  known  better,  she  took  the  two  young 
people  to  the  Palace  music-hall,  to  convince  themselves  of 
the  patriotic  feeling  that  the  declaration  of  war  had  aroused. 

It  may  have  been  true  that  the  music-halls  were  full  of 


FULL  SWING  153 

this  note  of  patriotism.  But  it  was  music-hall  patriotism- 
vulgar,  blatant,  without  endeavour  or  personal  sacrifice.  A 
little  drawf,  with  misshapen  limbs  and  deformed  fingers,  who 
was  a  great  favourite  with  this  particular  public,  was  dressed 
in  uniform  and  paraded  the  stage  singing  a  lyric  entitled  "  A 
little  British  Array  goes  a  damned  long  way,"  telling  an  over- 
whelmingly enthusiastic  audience  that  one  British  soldier 
could  "  down "  ten  foreigners  of  any  nationality.  There 
were  comic  lines  in  the  song  about  "  Dutch  courage."  A 
pori^rait  of  Kruger  drinking  coffee  was  thrown  on  the  screen 
and  duly  hissed.  This  was  followed  by  one  of  Sir  George 
White  that  was  duly  applauded. 

Eunice  said  to  Desmond  as  they  drove  home : 

"I  felt  very  excited  when  they  unfurled  our  flag.  You 
did,  too,  didn't  you,  Desmond  ?    I  saw  you  get  red." 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  was  out  there,"  answered  Desmond 
gloomily. 

And  that  decided  Agatha  to  call  on  the  Metherbys.  It 
has  to  be  remembered  that  at  that  time  few  had  any  idea 
save  that  the  war  would  be  a  small  affair,  short-lived.  Among 
Lady  Grindelay's  friends  the  impression  prevailed  that  the 
youngsters  who  got  out  in  time  to  see  something  of  the  fun 
would  be  lucky;  it  would  be  little  more  than  a  picnic.  All 
the  young  men  in  their  own  particular  sets  were  keen  on 
going,  and  all  their  relatives  were  proud  of  their  high  courage 
and  handsome  uniforms.     There  were  no  misgivings. 

Lady  Grindelay  came  home  to  lunch  a  few  days  after  the 
visit  to  the  music-hall  in  great  good  humour.  She  had  found 
there  were  ways  and  means  of  giving  Desmond  his  heart's 
desire,  or  what  she  thought  was  her  heart's  desire.  Through 
Colonel  Metherby's  influence  at  the  War  Office  she  had  ac- 
complished her  object.  Desmond  was  to  have  a  commission 
as  second  lieutenant  in  the  militia  battalion  of  Colonel 
Metherby's  regiment.  If  the  war  went  on,  he  would  be 
attached,  and  subsequently  transferred,  to  the  regular  bat- 
talion. He  might  even  go  out  to  South  Africa  .  .  .  She  had 
the  tribute  of  Desmond's  startled  attention,  Eunice's  excla- 
mation. 


154  FULL  SWING 

"Even  in  these  degenerate  days  there  is  something  to  be 
done  by  friendship." 

Lady  Grindelay  meant  patronage,  but  said  friendship. 
She  was  elated  at  her  success,  there  was  to  be  no  delay.  She 
neglected  her  luncheon  whilst  she  talked,  sending  away  the 
truffled  eggs  and  lobster  salad  in  the  excitement  of  her  news. 
Colonel  Metherby  or  his  wife  had  posted  her,  and  she  was 
full  of  detail. 

*'  There  is  any  amount  to  do.  You  can  go  to  the  Army 
tailor's  this  afternoon.'' 

She  produced  a  list  of  the  tradesmen  he  was  to  patronise, 
of  the  regimental  tailors,  saddle-makers  and  others.  She 
took  the  paper  out  of  her  purse  and  passed  it  to  him  before 
she  tasted  the  marango  de  veau. 

"  No  claret,  thank  you.    Pass  this  to  his  lordship." 

After  lunch  she  asked  Desmond  to  go  up  with  her  to  the 
study.  Perhaps  she  looked  forward  to  hearing  him  express 
his  gratitude,  to  hear  him  say  how  wonderfully  she  had  found 
out  what  ailed  liim,  and  so  quickly  relieved  it.  He  was  to  pass 
into  his  chosen  profession  without  examination.  She  never 
noticed  the  irresolution  with  which  he  followed  her,  but  was 
disappointed  when  the  expressions  of  gratitude  and  surprise 
failed  to  come  from  him.  He  still  looked  unhappy.  She  had 
the  intensest  desire  to  solace  him,  to  make  him  know  that  was 
her  desire. 

"  You  vsdll  be  pushed  on  as  quickly  as  possible.  Mrs. 
Metherby  and  I  are  old  friends,  and  Colonel  Metherby  has 
great  influence  at  the  War  Office.  There  is  no  doubt  of  your 
commission." 

He  tried  then  to  make  the  response  expected  of  him.  He 
saw  the  kindness  of  her  intention. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  have  taken  so  much 
trouble." 

"  I  don't  want  any  thanks." 

She  was  hurt  by  his  manner  and  the  way  he  was  taking 
her  news,  and  went  on  shortly : 

"  Let  us  make  a  list  of  what  there  is  to  do.    Get  a  pencil. 


FULL  SWING  155 

There  is  paper  in  that,  drawer.  You  might  go  to  Sandros  this 
afternoon  to  be  measured." 

Now  she  was  at  her  writing-table,  her  pencil  suspended 
over  the  paper. 

"  Shall  I  have  to  go  away  at  once  ?  " 

"To  Hythe  or  Aldershot.  Yes,  I  think  almost  imme- 
diately. Why?"  She  looked  inquiringly,  surprised — looked 
up  to  find  his  blue  eyes  misty  and  miserable  and  his  lips  a 
little  tremulous. 

"You  haven't  changed  your  mind  about  what  we  spoke 
of  before  ?  "  he  said  desperately. 

She  put  down  her  pencil  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"What  was  that?" 

He  flushed  furiously. 

"  About  Eunice.    If  it  hadn't  been  for  what  you  said " 

But  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  He  was  going  through 
a  bad  time  at  the  hands  of  a  clever,  unscrupulous  woman. 
Sometimes  he  was  sorry  for  Gabrielle  Eadlett;  sometimes  he 
hated  her,  and  always  himself  for  his  weakness.  Sin  had 
little  attraction  for  young  Lord  Grindelay;  there  was  more 
of  his  mother  than  his  father  in  him.  Already  what  he  had 
done  was  hot  coal  in  his  breast.  And  yet  it  was  not  irre- 
trievable. 

"What  I  said?" 

She  had  really  half  forgotten;  the  boy-and-girl  love  be- 
tween him  and  Eunice  was  so  much  less  than  her  own  feeling 
for  him  that  it  had  ceased  to  seem  of  importance.  But  now 
that  she  remembered  she  was  only  anxious  not  to  estrange 
hinL  "  I  hope  I  was  not  harsh  or  inconsiderate ;  I  was  think- 
ing for  both  of  you." 

"  I  know  as  well  as  you  do  I  am  not  good  enough  for 
her." 

"  Perhaps  by  now  you  have  learned  self-control,"  she  be- 
gan hesitatingly. 

"No,  I  haven't,  I'm  not  a  bit  better  than  I  was;  I'm 
worse.'' 

"  You  wrong  yourself.    I'm  sure  you  wrong  yourself." 

"Don't  you  believe  it?" 


156  FULL  SWING 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  she  too  had  had  periods  of  self- 
distrust,  to  draw  him  closer  to  her  by  her  confession;  she 
wanted  his  confidence ;  and  then,  suddenly,  she  dreaded  it. 

"  I — I'm  in  a  ghastly  mess." 

"  Not — not  what  that  horrible  man  hinted  ? '' 

The  blood  rushed  into  her  face;  she  conjured  up  a  dread- 
ful thing. 

"  You  don't  mean  Bird  guessed !  "  Desmond  was  startled 
into  answering.    "  What  did  he  tell  you  ?  " 

"That  your  nurse — that  you  and  your  nurse "     She 

could  not  go  on. 

"  Cockieolly  told  you  that !  " 

"  Is  that  what  you  called  him  ?  "  she  said  mechanically. 

"  Cockieolly  Bird.    Yes.    I  wonder  how  he  knew  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  then  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  It  depends  what  he  said." 

He  was  longing  for  the  relief  of  confession.  His  mother 
was  old,  experienced,  he  even  thought  at  the  moment  she  was 
a  woman  of  the  world.    He  needed  advice,  help. 

''  I  suppose  it's  what  you  would  call  true  ?  "  he  said  sul- 
lenly; but  only  the  manner  was  sullen,  hiding  anxiety,  even 
hope. 

"But  .  .  .  but  you  care  for  Eunice,"  she  said  with 
difficulty. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

She  had  no  answer  ready,  and  he  went  on : 

"There  is  nothing  to  prevent  my  marrying  Eunice,  if 
you  will  give  your  consent." 

"  How  can  I  ?    How  can  I  ?  " 

Lord  Grindelay's  stories  came  rushing  into  her  mind, 
all  of  them  at  once.  Seduction  and  intrigue,  licentiousness 
and  intemperance ;  all  the  dreadful  things  men  do, 

"  You  took  advantage  of  her  position  !  " 

He  could  not  see  into  her  mind,  nor  that  she  pictured 
Nurse  Radlett  as  his  victim,  caught  unawares  whilst  tending 
him.     She  saw  dreadful  pictures. 

And  but  a  few  hours  ago,  divining  his  ambition,  she  had 
counted  herself  happy.     He  was  England's  soldier  and  her 


FULL  SWING  157 

son.  She  •was  sending  him  forth,  as  so  many  Wanstead 
mothers  had  done.  Now  he  was  hardly  fit  to  go.  He  saw 
how  her  face  had  changed,  the  grey  disappointment  in  it. 

"  You  may  say  anything  you  like  to  me.  I  suppose  you 
think  I'm  outside  the  pale,  that  this  makes  it  more  impos- 
sible than  ever.  But  if  I  had  been  engaged  to  Eunice  it 
couldn't  have  happened." 

"  You  ought  to  have  thought  of  her."  She  did  not  know 
■what  to  say. 

"  I'm  no  worse  than  other  fellows." 

"  God  help  their  mothers  and  wives,"  she  whispered. 

«  That's  rot." 

For  all  his  unhappiness  he  had  not  got  quite  out  of  per- 
spective as  she  had ;  he  was  better  informed.  What  had  driven 
him  to  his  half  confession  he  hardly  knew.  It  was  really  his 
honesty,  because  he  wanted  to  speak  of  Eunice  before  he  went 
away  and  make  a  last  effort  for  her. 

"  How  about  Eimice  ?  " 

"  But  if — if  your  honour  is  already  pledged  ?  " 

"  If  s  nothing  of  that  sort,"  he  answered  hastily. 

She  was  afraid  of  what  more  she  might  hear,  literally 
afraid.  Since  the  day,  nineteen  years  ago,  that  she  had  left 
his  father,  her  ears  had  been  closed  against  such  stories  as 
these.  She  found  herself  no  better  able  to  bear  them  now 
than  she  had  been  then. 

"Don't  tell  me,  I  am  trying  not  to  be  intolerant.  Don't 
tell  me  more  than  you  are  compelled." 

"  I'm  not  compelled  to  tell  you  anything.  I  wish  now  I 
had  not  spoken  at  all." 

Lady  Grindelay  said  quickly  that  she,  too,  wished  it.  She 
had  an  extraordinary  physical  repulsion  from  him,  only  mo- 
mentary, however. 

"You'd  rather  see  her  dead  than  give  her  to  me  now? 
You'd  put  the  world  between  us  if  you  could  ?  "  Desmond 
said  angrily. 

"  I  can't  let  you  wrong  any  woman.  You  must  let  me 
think.  .  .  ." 

She  was  flushed  inside  and  out  with  the  shame  of  what 


168  FULL  SWING 

he  had  done.  To  her  it  was  as  bad  as  if  he  had  been  a  girl. 
She  could  see  little  difference.  But  that  was  her  folly,  her 
altruistic  folly.  She  almost  knew  it,  and  that  she  ought  never 
to  have  been  the  mother  of  a  son. 

When  Desmond  found  himself  alone  he  knew  he  had  made 
an  ass  of  himself.  That  his  mother  was  a  good  woman  he  had 
no  doubt.  But  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  thinking  her  worldly 
wise.    He  felt  very  miserable. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  mother  ?  I  can't  be  myself  with 
her  at  all,"  his  thoughts  ran.  "  One  minute  she'll  be  for 
giving  me  the  earth,  and  the  next  for  kicking  me  out.  What 
does  she  know  about  temptation?  Why,  just  nothing  at  all. 
And  how  can  I  explain  it  to  her." 

"  Oh,  Desmond !  "  Eunice  came  in  breathlessly.  "  There's 
Lady  John  downstairs  and  the  Metlierbys.  I'm  going  down 
to  pour  out  tea.  You'll  come,  won't  you  ?  They'll  be  wanting 
to  see  you." 

"No."  He  actually  could  not  even  face  Eunice  at  this 
moment.  Turning  his  back  to  her,  he  stared  out  of  the 
window.  "  No.  I  haven't  got  much  time,  and  I  can't  waste 
it  on  outsiders." 

She  went  over  to  the  table. 

"Are  these  the  lists?  Are  these  all  the  things  you've 
got  to  get?  What  a  quantity!  You  and  auntie  have  been 
talking  for  a  long  time,  haven't  you?  "  she» added  innocently. 

He  came  away  from  the  window  abruptly,  inconsequently, 
came  to  where  she  stood. 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  hear  what  we've  been  talking 
about?"  he  asked  her.  He  seemed  quite  angry  and  unlike 
himself.    "  It  was  about  you." 

"Me?" 

"  Ymt/' 

She  met  his  eyes  with  surprise  in  her  own.  Then  hers 
went  down,  and  she  heard  her  heart  beating  so  fast  that 
she  thought  he  too  must  hear  it. 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  what  I  said  to  you  under  the  oak 
at  Marley  ?  "  he  went  on.  He  was  in  for  it  now,  and  a  little 
reckless.    "  Have  you  forgotten  ?  " 


FULL  SWING  159 

"No." 

"  I  was  right  about  Michael  McKay  wanting  you,  wasn't 
I  ?  "    He  came  a  step  nearer  to  her.    "  Wasn't  I  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  told  him " 

"  Go  on."  He  was  very  near  to  her,  and  she  had  the 
habit  of  candour  with  him, 

"  I  told  him  about  you  and  me,"  she  faltered. 

"  You  told  him  that !  You  hadn't  forgotten,  then .''  But 
you've  been  so  different  to  me." 

"  I  thought  you'd  been  different  to  me." 

"  What  do  you  think  now  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  the  same." 

A  thousand  memories  were  between  them  and  about  them. 
Words  were  almost  unnecessary,  because  the  memories  were 
as  loud  as  words.    He  had  his  arms  quickly  about  her. 

"Darling!" 

"  Is  that  what  you  and  Aunt  Agatha  were  talking  about  ?  " 
she  whispered, 

"  She  won't  hear  of  it.  She's  quite  right,  too.  I'm  not 
good  enough  for  you,  not  nearly  good  enough.  I'm  as  bad 
as  bad  can  be,  or  I'd  not  be  talking  like  this  to  you  now. 
But  I'm  going  away,  and  I  love  you.  Whatever  I've  done, 
I've  never  left  off  loving  you." 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  asked  innocently.  "I  am 
sure  it  has  been  nothing  very  bad." 

"Yes,  I  have.  How  can  I  tell  you?  I  won't  tell  you. 
Eunice,  she'll  never  give  her  consent.  She  is  too  old  to  un- 
derstand. Can't  we  do  without  it?  Let's  throw  everybody 
overboard.  Have  you  got  the  courage  ?  Do  you  care  enough 
about  me?  I'm  in  such  a  devil  of  a  mess.  I  want  you  so 
badly.    Come  away  with  me." 

His  eyes  were  bloodshot.  He  did  not  mean  a  word  of  it ; 
never  held  her  more  closely  nor  entreated  her  as  if  he  had  been 
a  man,  or  an3rthing  but  the  unhappy  and  distracted  boy  he 
found  himself.  "Marry  me  at  once,  with  or  without  her 
consent." 


160  FULL  SWING 

"  But  she's  always  been  so  good  to  me — to  us,"  she  faltered 
out,  in  astonishment.    "  How  can  I  ?    You  don't  mean  it." 

"  And  wouldn't  I  be  good  to  you  ?  Who  wouldn't  be  good 
to  you  ?  What  is  she  to  either  of  us  compared  to  what  we  are 
to  each  other.  Come  away  with  me,  Eunice.  I  don't  know 
what  I'll  do  if  you  don't."  For  now  he  felt  the  down  of  her 
cheek  against  his  own  and  the  softness  of  her  lips.  Both 
their  hearts  were  beating  fast. 

"  What  is  she  to  either  of  ils  compared  to  what  we  are  to 
each  other." 

Those  were  the  words  Lady  Grindelay  heard  as  she  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  the  room.  From  time  immemorial 
mothers  have  listened  or  heard  the  same,  but  to  this  one  they 
seemed  unbearable.  Moved  to  sudden  anger  and  unreason  in 
pain,  the  words  rushed  from  her,  the  words  that  should  never 
have  been  spoken. 

"This  is  how  you  intrigue  against  me,  while  I — I  have 
been  only  planning  to  help  you,  to  do  you  service.  You  are, 
after  all,  nothing  but  your  father  over  again,  treacherous, 
cruel,  unfaithful " 

Eunice  came  swiftly  to  her,  would  have  pleaded,  but 
Lady  Grindelay  put  her  on  one  side. 

"  Have  you  told  her  that  you  are  not  even  free  ?  Is  no 
woman  safe  from  you?" 

"  It's  a  lie.     She  isn't  in  danger  from  me." 

"  Don't  say  unkind  things  to  Desmond,  auntie." 

"  I  know  what  to  say  to  Desmond." 
"  But  she  knew  so  little  what  to  say  to  him,  and  said  it  so 
badly  that  when  he  left  her  he  believed  himself  to  be  un- 
worthy and  tainted,  that  it  did  not  matter  what  became  of 
him,  that  he  had  no  chance  of  winning  Eunice. 

And  it  was  all  because  she  loved  him  and  had  never  learnt 
the  language  of  love;  because  of  her  ignorance  and  want  of 
reasoning  power. 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  next  day  and  the  next  the  girl  hung  about  her  with 
question  in  her  eyes,  but  Desmond  stayed  away.  The  weeks 
passed.  Then  they  heard  he  had  joined  his  regiment,  and 
suddenly,  without  any  preparation  at  all,  that  he  was  going 
out  to  South  Africa!  Lady  Grindelay  herself  had  made  it 
possible,  but  no  one  was  more  stunned  than  Lady  Grindelay. 
There  was  a  great  shortage  of  officers.  Colonel  Metherby  had 
influence  at  the  War  Office,  and  Agatha  had  asked  him  to 
use  it.  He  had  used  it  so  well  that  after  only  six  weeks' 
training,  and  with  only  his  commission  in  the  Militia,  Des- 
mond was  to  be  attached  to  the  battalion  Colonel  Metherby 
himself  commanded  and  to  go  out  with  him. 

Letters  went  to  and  fro  between  mother  and  son — strange, 
strained  letters.  She  wanted  his  forgiveness,  but  did  not 
know  how  to  ask  for  it;  to  keep  him  in  England,  but  knew 
that  there  was  no  longer  the  possibility.  He  wrote  her  that 
everything  she  had  said  to  him  was  justified,  he  begged  her 
not  to  oppose  or  throw  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  going  away, 
to  let  him  have  this  chance.  Her  two  wooden  idols,  duty  and 
conscience,  still  stood  upon  their  altar;  now  she  hung  her 
maternity  upon  the  crucifix  between,  and  sacrificed  to  that 
also. 

She  stipulated  that  he  was  to  come  to  Marley  to  bid  them 
good-bye,  and  he  came  down  in  time  for  lunch.  Any  strange- 
ness or  strained  relations  between  them  were  covered  by  the 
circumstances  and  the  shortness  of  his  stay.  Everything  was 
being  hurried  in  the  general  unpreparedness,  in  the  face  of 
ominous  rumours.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but  that  she 
was  sending  him  into  danger,  perhaps  into  death,  that  it  was 
to  this  her  mother-love  had  brought  him. 

As  for  Eunice,  she  thought  little  of  the  war  and  a  great 
deal  of  what  Desmond  would  say  to  her  about  the  future. 
She  knew  he  cared  for  her,  and  wanted  to  hear  him  say  so 

n  161 


163  FULL  SWING 

again.  There  had  never  been  anybody  for  her  but  Desmond, 
and  since  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  Grosvenor  Street,  she 
knew  without  any  shadow  of  doubt  that  it  was  the  same  with 
him.  She  thought  that  her  aunt  opposed  a  marriage  between 
them  because  they  were  both  so  young.  She  thought  that 
everything  would  come  right  when  Desmond  came  home 
again,  and  hoped  for  the  opportunity  to  tell  him  so. 

"When  she  knows  how  we  feel  about  it,  when  she  sees 
how  much  we  are  to  each  other,  it  will  he  all  right.  She  loves 
us  both.  You  have  always  thought  she  did  not  love  you,  but 
I  know  better.  She  has  that  cold  manner,  but  it  doesn't  mean 
anything.  I  saw  her  looking  at  that  portrait  you  sent  us,  the 
one  in  uniform.  She  said  to  herself,  '  That  is  my  son,  my 
only  son.'    I  saw  her  trembling  lips  saying  it." 

This  is  what  Eunice  meant  to  say  to  Desmond.  She  made 
up  her  mind  she  would  not  be  shy  with  him;  but  would  tell 
him,  too,  what  she  had  not  told  in  the  library  that  afternoon 
in  Grosvenor  Street,  that  she  loved  him  completely,  thought 
of  him  by  night  and  day.  She  flushed  warmly  two  or  three 
times  during  luncheon  at  the  thought  of  what  she  would  say 
to  him  when  they  were  alone  together. 

But  she  never  told  him. 

There  was  business  talk  from  which  she  was  excluded. 
Lady  Grindelay  had  been  generous  in  making  provision  for 
her  son,  and  he  spoke  feelingly  of  her  generosity,  thanking 
her  for  it.  His  gratitude,  or  the  expression  of  it,  was  like 
a  reproach  to  her.  She  liked  to  give,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
now  that  she  had  given  him  so  little — only  the  right  to  leave 
her  in  this  way.  She  was  nevertheless  somewhat  surprised 
to  find  him  business-like  in  his  talk  of  money,  and  anxious 
that  his  allowance  should  be  paid  into  a  London  bank,  quar- 
terly and  in  advance. 

Afterwards  they  sat  m  the  drawing-room  together,  the 
three  of  them,  making  talk.  It  seemed  unnatural,  unreal, 
that  they  should  be  sitting  like  this.  And  the  talk  was  unreal, 
too,  jerky,  superficial,  almost  stupid. 

"We  might  have  gone  to  Southampton  to  see  you  off, 
if  we  had  thought  about  it  in  time." 


FULL  SWING  163 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't,"  he  said  hastily,  and  added:  "  I'm 
sure  you'd  have  hated  it." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  will  be  gone  very  long.  I  should 
not  be  surprised  at  all  if  the  war  was  over  before  you  got 
out." 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  You  might  come  back  without  an  arm  or  a  leg,  like  the 
heroes  in  fiction,"  Eunice  heard  herself  saying. 

"  Or  still  without  a  moustache,"  Lady  Grindelay  added 
with  that  stiff  lightness  that  was  all  of  which  she  was  capable. 
She  had  had  all  his  childhood  and  youth,  and  let  them  go 
past  her  unheeding.  He  had  hardly  seemed  hers  before ;  now 
none  of  her  possessions  counted  but  him. 

She  had  never  held  him  in  her  arms,  strained  him  to  her 
heart,  and  she  knew  she  could  not  do  it  now,  that  there  would 
be  no  scene  of  reconciliation  between  them  nor  emotion.  She 
could  not  be  other  than  the  woman  she  was,  incapable  of 
demonstrativeness.  Yet  he  stood  now  upon  her  heart,  and  it 
was  pain  made  her  speechless. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  at  length,  rising.  "  I 
said  the  dog-cart  was  to  be  round  at  three." 

"  Can't  we  go  to  the  station,  auntie  ?  " 

Eunice  said  "  we,"  but  meant  "  I." 

"  The  barouche  is  already  ordered." 

"  Can't  we  walk  ?  "  poor  Eunice  stammered  out.  It  was  for 
that  she  had  been  waiting,  but  Desmond  had  made  no  move. 
Nothing  had  come  about  as  she  had  expected;  they  had  not 
had  one  word  together.  And  he  had  hardly  looked  at  her. 
All  his  constrained  talk  had  been  for  his  mother,  although 
she  herself  had  always  been  first  with  him.  Her  heart 
swelled,  but  the  sweetness  of  her  disposition  prevailed  and 
acknowledged  his  mother's  right;  she,  at  least,  had  never 
doubted  that  Desmond's  mother  loved  him.  Desmond  him- 
self did  not  doubt  it  to-day;  he  hardly  remembered  that 
there  had  been  anger  between  them. 

At  the  station  Lady  Grindelay's  self-possession  was  a 
defence,  her  strength  and  hardness  but  an  outpost.  She 
spoke  hurriedly  and  impulsively,  said  the  absurd  thing. 


164  FULL  SWING 

"  You  will  take  care  of  yourself.  You  will  remember  you 
are  my  only  son.  You  will  not  expose  yourself  unnecessarily 
to  danger?" 

"  I'll  be  all  right,"  he  answered  awkwardly. 

When  the  train  was  in,  and  the  last  moment  had  come, 
she  kissed  him  as  she  had  never  kissed  him  before.  She  kept 
her  arm  about  him  a  minute. 

"  Only  come  back  to  me,"  she  said. 

When  he  returned  her  kiss,  that  too  was  with  a  difference, 
and  there  was  something  very  like  a  sob  in  his  throat. 

"You've  been  awfully  good  to  me.  I  wish  I'd  been  a 
better  son." 

"  Come  back,  only  come  back,  and  everything  will  be 
different." 

"  You  won't  think  worse  of  me  than  you  can  help  ?  "  His 
voice  was  husky. 

"  I  shall  remember  only  that  you  are  my  son." 

"  You'll — ^you'll  tell  her  nothing !  I  may  never  come  back. 
I — I  couldn't  get  out  of  it." 

It  seemed  as  if  he  would  have  said  more,  but  they  were 
at  cross  purposes.  He  was  everything  to  her,  but  to  him  she 
was  only  his  mother. 

He  did  not  kiss  Eunice,  he  hardly  even  said  good-bye; 
it  would  have  seemed  he  did  not  see  her  on  the  platform. 
Only  at  the  last,  at  the  very  last,  when  she  stood  there, 
stunned  with  the  fact  that  he  had  gone,  gone  without  a 
word,  she  met  his  eyes  through  the  window  of  the  carriage, 
and  saw  that  there  was  yearning  and  misery  in  them.  She 
knew  then,  instinctively,  that  it  was  not  because  he  did  not 
care  for  her  that  he  had  not  kissed  her  good-bye. 

Poor  Desmond!  He  was  alone  in  the  carriage,  and  if 
either  Eunice  or  his  mother  had  seen  him  when  the  train 
steamed  out  of  the  station,  they  would  have  been  satisfied  he 
was  not  parting  from  them  coldly  or  callously.  He  broke 
down  when  he  found  himself  alone,  cried,  not  like  a  soldier, 
but  like  a  child.  He  never  thought  to  see  them  again ;  almost 
hoped  he  never  would.     He  knew  now  he  might  have  won 


FULL  SWING  165 

Eunice  as  well  as  his  mother,  and  that  he  had  only  himself  to 
blame  because  it  was  impossible. 

He  had  made  an  irreparable  blunder.  If  he  had  told  the 
truth  he  might  never  have  got  his  commission.  If  he  came 
back  it  would  be  to  face  a  situation  that  already  seemed 
unfaceable.  He  was  going  out  to  fight  the  Boers,  not  with 
the  fear  of  death,  but  with  the  hope  of  it.  He  was  married 
to  Gabrielle  Radlett — married!  And  there  was  not  a  fibre 
of  his  heart  that  was  not  entwined  round  the  girl  to  whom 
he  had  not  dared  to  say  good-bye,  whose  hand  he  had  not 
dared  to  touch. 

Eunice  and  Lady  Grindelay  drove  back  to  Marley  Court 
in  silence.  Desmond  had  gone.  There  was  no  more  to  be 
said ;  there  was  only  to  wait  until  he  came  back — a  short  time. 

"He  will  remain  in  the  army,  I  suppose,  until  he  gets 
his  captaincy ;  then  he  will  come  back  and  settle  down,"  Lady 
Grindelay  said  as  she  got  out  of  the  carriage.  "  I  should  not 
look  so  forlorn  about  it  if  I  were  you." 

"  It's  such  a  long  time."  Eunice's  lips  trembled.  Each 
of  them  wanted  solitude,  the  old  one  not  less  than  the  young, 
and  that  the  other  should  not  see  her  tears. 

By  dinner-time  they  were  calmer.  Both  of  them  really 
believed  in  the  legend  of  Boer  farmers  armed  with  Bibles, 
both  of  them  were  possessed  by  a  vague  idea  that  if  there  were 
to  be  serious  fighting  it  would  be  done  by  the  soldiers  in  the 
ranks,  that  officers  were  practically  immune;  that  they 
shouted  orders  and  awaited  events  at  a  safe  distance. 

"  It  is  not  as  if  it  were  India  or  Egypt ;  there  is  no  native 
treachery  to  fear.  I  don't  suppose  the  troops  will  ever  have 
to  go  beyond  Cape  Town,"  Lady  Grindelay  said  during  dinner. 

It  was  not  only  on  that  evening  Agatha  reassured  Eunice 
— and  perhaps  herself.  As  the  troopship  with  Desmond  on 
board  neared  the  Cape  reassurance  became  necessary. 

The  morning  papers  came  late  to  Marley.  Long  before 
Desmond  went  they  had  been  impatient  for  their  arrival, 
following  the  progress  of  the  war,  surprised,  incredulous  that 
the  Boers  were  not  already  on  their  knees  suing  for  peace; 


166  FULL  SWING 

conscious  already,  although  neither  voiced  it,  of  a  faint  and 
dawning  anxiety. 

There  had  flashed  along  the  cables  news  of  the  engage- 
ment at  Talana  Hill.  It  was  accounted  a  victory,  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end.  The  correspondents  reported  that  when  our 
troops  came  back  from  that  pyrrhic  victory,  soddened  with 
rain,  plastered  with  mud,  dog-tired,  but  in  the  best  of  spirits, 
they  marched  into  Ladysmith  with  colours  flying,  amid  the 
cheers  of  their  comrades.  Into  Ladysmith!  But  that  was 
in  October,  1899. 

The  anxiety  deepened  all  the  time,  but  they  disguised  it 
from  each  other. 

He  will  be  disappointed  if  it  is  all  over  before  he  gets 
there,"  said  Lady  Grindelay,  when  she  read  of  the  marching 
into  Ladysmith. 

Flashed  through  the  cables  the  story  of  Percy  Scott  and 
the  guns  at  Ladysmith.  What  did  it  mean?  Surely  those 
naval  guns  would  not  be  needed.  In  a  week  now,  six  days 
now,  to-morrow  now,  Desmond  would  be  at  Cape  Town.  And 
still  the  Boers  had  not  laid  down  their  arms ! 

How  absurd  it  seems  in  retrospect,  how  incredible!  Yet 
all  through  the  country  there  was  the  same  opinion,  the  same 
optimism,  the  same  expectations  that  sons,  husbands  and 
fathers  were  only  out  on  parade.  For  a  short  time,  a  very 
short  time,  those  at  home  were  only  proud,  not  afraid.  Then, 
one  after  another,  from  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  from 
places  that  had  never  been  heard  of,  from  men  whose  names 
were  unknown,  came  stories  of  disaster  and  blunder — incon- 
ceivable, unbelievable  stories.  English  officers  taken  pris- 
oners with  all  their  men,  laying  down  their  arms;  English 
officers  surrendering  with  their  troops ! 

The  mistress  of  Marley  and  Eunice  read  with  amazement, 
read  with  bewilderment,  read  with  hot  shame  and  pain,  as 
thousands  of  others  were  reading.  They  could  hardly  face 
each  other's  eyes ;  began  to  be  afraid  to  speak,  yet  hardly  con- 
tent out  of  each  other's  sight;  dreading  the  long  hours 
between  the  posts,  dreading  the  posts  even  more. 

Before  they  realised  what  was  occurring,  what  manner  of 


FULL  SWING  167 

men  were  these  Boer  farmers,  there  flashed  along  the  cables 
casualty  lists  from  Elandslaagte,  from  Rietfontein.  The 
poor,  proud  women  in  their  English  homes  read  of  the  blunder 
of  Nicholson's  Nek,  the  catastrophe  of  Colesberg. 

Now  the  women  no  longer  sent  out  their  beloved  gladly 
and  proudly,  but  hung  upon  their  necks  begging  them  not  to 
go,  imploring,  praying.  And  now  they  were  unheeded.  Story 
after  story  came  through,  setting  men  aflame. 

*^It  was  our  young  captain.  Father,  father,  we'd  rather 
have  died  than  surrender,  if  it  had  been  left  to  us,"  cried  a 
passionate  Irish  Fusilier  to  his  priest.  The  Times  printed 
the  story. 

Here,  in  England,  grey  old  men  flushed  with  shame  as 
they  read,  and  rushed  to  the  War  Office  begging,  praying  for 
employment,  to  be  sent  out,  at  their  own  expense,  in  any 
corps,  with  any  rank,  only  to  wipe  out  the  stain  on  the  flag. 
Young  men  laid  down  fishing-rod  and  golf  clubs.  Stock  Ex- 
change lists,  measuring  tapes.  Office  boy  and  clerk,  drapers' 
assistants,  and  even  those  young  men  whose  recreation  it  was 
to  watch  other  people  play  cricket  or  football,  awoke  shame- 
facedly to  their  country's  needs,  and  volunteered  in  great 
squads  of  awkwardness  and  incapacity.  The  War  Office  was 
besieged,  overwhelmed,  and  in  alarm  and  non-comprehension 
of  what  was  required,  took  everybody  who  applied,  hurriedly 
fitted  up,  hurriedly  sent  out,  incapable  braves,  lacking  arms, 
horses,  accoutrements,  constitutions;  added  muddle  to 
muddle,  courting  disaster.  An  old  story  now,  a  sad  old  story, 
illustrated  with  sad  old  graves,  with  hearths  made  for  ever 
desolate.  Most  of  us  have  forgotten;  a  few  of  us  can  never 
forget. 

Now  neither  Lady  Grindelay  nor  Eunice  could  hide  her 
anxiety — anxiety  that  amounted  sometimes  to  anguish,  that 
made  their  nights  sleepless  and  their  days  one  long  apprehen- 
sion. They  could  not  stay  at  Marley  waiting  for  the  belated 
posts.  They  moved  back  to  London,  took  another  furnished 
house,  waited  for  news.  Here  they  were  surrounded  by 
friends  in  like  case,  their  hearts  sick  with  fear,  faces  pale 
with  watching,  many  already  in  mourning.    Here,  fortunately. 


168  FULL  SWING 

too,  they  found  there  was  work  they  could  do.  Disaster  after 
disaster  fell  on  the  bruised  national  spirit,  until  London,  at 
least,  was  all  one  ache — work  the  only  emollient.  There  were 
bandages  to  be  made,  comforters  knitted  or  sewn  for  field- 
hospital  or  ambulance,  charity  concerts  or  matinees  to  be 
organised.  Lady  Grindelay  braced  herself  with  such  things, 
maintained  an  appearance  of  courage  as  a  Wanstead  should. 
She  had  learned  her  lesson  well  by  now,  and  what  it  was  to  be 
the  mother  of  a  son ;  the  knowledge  came  to  her  so  late,  and 
with  more  than  birth-pain.  It  became  a  physical  thing,  this 
pain,  and  the  memory  of  Desmond  and  the  wasted  days  when 
she  had  not  cared  for  him.  As  the  days  wore  on  the  pain 
concentrated  in  one  place  in  her  side.  Night  and  day  it  ached 
there. 

Agatha,  although  she  was  nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  was  a 
strong  and  vigorous  woman  at  the  beginning  of  the  Boer 
war.  Before  the  end  of  it  she  had  grown  into  old  age.  She 
never  disguised  from  herself  that  it  was  she  who  had  sent  him 
out.  Not  her  reticence,  but  the  poor  remnant  of  her  self- 
confidence  forsook  her.  There  were  times  when  she  could 
only  cry  for  him,  others  when,  iu  the  solitude  of  her  bedroom, 
she  would  pray  wildly. 

Desmond  was  "slightly  wounded"  at  Magersfontein. 
This  gave  her  temporary  release  from  the  worst  of  her  anxie- 
ties. They  heard  that  he  was  in  hospital,  and  hoped  that 
he  would  be  invalided  home.  Eunice  and  she  had  their  short- 
time  of  indomitable  hope,  when  every  hour  might  bring  the 
news  that  he  had  embarked.  There  were  names  among  the 
fallen  that  made  their  gratitude  humble.  There  was  no  heir 
now  for  Denham,  and  none  for  Eversleigh.  But  Desmond 
was  coming  home. 

Never  in  her  young  days  had  Agatha  known  love.  Now 
it  came  upon  her  like  a  wild  beast  hungered,  hot  breathed 
and  panting,  the  unsatiated  passion  and  pain  of  her  late 
maternity;  all  the  knowledge  she  had  avoided,  from  which 
her  dignity  and  her  position  were  alike  powerless  to  protect 
her.  She  could  put  her  hand  now  to  where  the  pain  burned 
always.    Already  she  suspected  the  hurt  was  to  death. 


FULL  SWING  169 

Eunice  hardly  knew  what  ailed  her  the  night  she  went 
from  her  own  room  to  her  aunt's.  But  at  the  thought  that 
Desmond  was  on  his  way,  and  might  be  home  any  day  now, 
a  sudden  intensity  of  longing  for  him  seized  upon  her.  It 
had  lain  in  wait  for  her  all  day,  and  in  the  night  it  rose  until 
a  moment  when  it  became  unbearable — unbearable,  that  is,  in 
solitude.  She  woke  to  a  sudden  craving,  she  wanted  Des- 
mond as  starving  men  want  food,  as  brown  grass  needs  rain, 
as  panting  animals  crave  for  water.  The  rush  of  longing 
for  him,  burning  her  cheeks,  inflaming  her  blood,  and  ham- 
mering in  her  brain,  was  the  end  of  a  dream;  it  flooded  her, 
came  and  came  again.  She  had  no  knowledge  to  make  her 
ashamed  of  this  intolerable  thirst;  when  she  began  to  think 
coherently  it  seemed  there  was  nothing  between  her  and  the 
assuagement  of  it,  but  Lady  Grindelay's  opposition.  Before 
Desmond  came  home  she  must  get  her  aunt's  promise  that  she 
would  no  longer  stand  between  them.  He  might  be  here  any 
time  now.  Perhaps  he  had  already  started.  Nothing  must 
be  between  them  when  he  came. 

She  started  up  in  bed  when  this  thought  came  to  her; 
she  could  not  go  on  lying  there  in  the  darkness.  She  did 
not  stay  to  reason,  she  was  driven  by  her  thirst.  Swiftly,  in 
her  white  nightgown,  barefooted,  she  slipped  out  of  her  warm 
bed,  paused  an  irresolute  moment,  then  was  through  the  door, 
along  one  passage  and  across  the  other,  knocking  at  her 
aunt's  door,  and  in  the  room  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
to  her  knock. 

Lady  Grindelay  was  hardly  startled.  She,  too,  was  awake, 
reading  by  candle-light. 

"Come  in.  Shut  the  door."  She  never  even  asked  if 
there  was  an3rthing  the  matter. 

"  I  had  to  come,"  Eunice  began  falteringly. 

"Without  a  dressing-gown?"  But  the  rebuke  was  per- 
functory. 

"It's  quite  warm.  You  don't  mind?  I  didn't  wake 
you?" 

"No;  I  was  not  asleep." 


170  FULL  SWING 

Agatha  was  glad  of  company,  and  looked  round  for  cover 
for  her. 

"  Wrap  yourself  in  my  dressing-gown — there  it  is,  hanging 
over  the  chair." 

Eunice  disregarded  the  suggestion,  standing  hy  the  side 
of  the  bed,  shivering  a  little. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep.'' 

Neither  had  Agatha  been  able  to. 

"  The  days  and  nights  are  long.  Come  under  the  quilt, 
you  may  be  able  to  sleep  here." 

Eunice  lay  beside  her  aunt,  but  sleep  was  far  from  her. 

"I  want  to  talk  about  Desmond,"  Eunice  whispered 
presently. 

"  You  have  been  lying  awake,  thinking  of  him  ?  " 

"  No,  sleeping  and  dreaming.  I'm  glad  you  put  out  the 
candle.  Auntie,  don't  you  want  to  talk  about  him?  He  is 
on  his  way  home.  You  will  never  be  angry  with  him  about 
anything  again  ?    We've  known  what  it  is  to  be  without  him." 

"  You  blame  me  for  sending  him  ?  But  he  would  have 
gone  anyhow  when  it  came  to  this." 

"How  could  I  blame  you?  I  know  he  would  have  gone 
anyhow.    He  always  meant  to  be  a  soldier." 

"Did  he?  He  never  told  me."  How  little  he  had  ever 
told  her ;  how  little  she  had  encouraged  him  to  talk ! 

"  When  he  comes  back  we  shall  both  be  older.  I  know  it 
was  because  you  thought  we  were  both  too  young.  You'll  say 
*  Yes '  when  he  comes  back.  It  was  because  you  thought  us 
too  young,  wasn't  it?  But  I'm  not  too  young  now, — I  want 
him/' 

"I  want  him,  too,"  Agatha  answered,  forlornly,  and  in- 
deed her  hunger  for  him  ached  within  her. 

*'  He  always  loved  you,  and  wanted  you  to  love  him.  When 
he  was  little — always,"  Eunice  said  consolingly. 

"  I  think  it  is  true ;  sometimes  I  think  it  is  true.  Inci- 
dents occur  to  me."  It  was  a  relief  to  speak,  to  unburden 
herself. 

"  Tell  me  about  them,  I  can't  sleep ;  I  want  to  talk  about 
Desmond.    Tell  me  stories  about  him." 


FULL  SWING  171 

"  What  am  I  to  tell  you  ?  How  hard  and  cold  I  must  have 
seemed  to  him  always,  the  pain  I  have  in  recalling  it?  "  She 
had  forgotten  to  whom  she  was  speaking,  she  was  talking  to 
herself. 

"  He'll  never  rememher  it  when  he  comes  back,  when  you 
tell  him  that  everything  is — is  all  right  for  us." 

"  I  always  failed  him ;  I  know  it  now.  When  he  was  quite 
a  little  fellow,  about  seven  years  old,  never  at  ease  with  me, 
never  as  he  was  with  that  old  Irish  nurse  of  his,  he  came 
through  the  window  of  the  drawing-room  with  a  bunch  of 
flowers  in  his  hand,  daisies  and  marigolds.  They  were  for  me, 
I  know  now  they  were  for  me.  I  don't  know  what  I  said, 
something  about  coming  in  by  the  door,  or  muddy  boots, 
although  I  liked  to  see  him  there,  although  my  heart  beat 
faster  for  seeing  him  there.  But  I  was  bom  dumb,  like  that, 
and  everything  has  passed  me  by.  He  threw  the  flowers  at 
me,  fled  away,  was  rude  and  sullen  afterwards,  defiant.  My 
son,  my  little  son !  And  now  I  am  an  old  woman,  and 
alone " 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  Eunice  said  softly.  She  was  calmer  now. 
Her  thirst  had  left  her.  She  only  wanted  to  talk  of  him, 
of  all  he  had  ever  said  or  done.  Agatha  went  on  slowly, 
her  conscience  was  very  oppressed  and  clamorous  to-night, 
but  talking  eased  it. 

"  Once,  when  I  was  lying  on  the  lawn — he  must  have 
thought  I  was  asleep,  because  my  book  had  fallen,  and  my 
eyes  were  shut — he  crept  near  me,  stood  there,  then  quite 
hastily  picked  up  the  rug  to  put  over  my  feet,  and  ran  away 
lest  I  should  see  him." 

"  Go  on." 

*'  I  said  cold  things  to  him,  cold,  reasonable  things  always. 
I  kept  him  at  arm's  length." 

"He  loved  you,"  whispered  Eunice  comfortingly.  "All 
his  rough  shyness  was  because  he  loved  you.  I  knew  it,  but 
we  never  spoke  about  it  in  actual  words.  When  we  were  little 
I  used  to  say,  '  Why  don't  you  climb  on  her  knee  ?  Why  don't 
you  kiss  her  like  I  do  ? '  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  be  kissed.    I  never  cared  for  kissing-." 


172  FULL  SWING 

A  thrill  ran  through  the  girl,  a  happy  thrill;  and 
although  it  was  dark  she  hid  her  head. 

"  I  do,"  she  whispered,  "  I  do." 

Her  cheeks  were  flooded ;  but  she  was  not  really  ashamed. 

"  Desmond  and  I  like  kissing." 

"1  never  did,"  Agatha  answered.  "I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  never  did." 

Then  quite  suddenly  she  found  herself  antagonistic, 
strangely  and  inconceivably  antagonistic.  The  girl  would  have 
nestled  against  her,  gone  on  talking,  but  she  sent  her  away 
as  soon  as  possible,  told  her  she  must  go  back  to  bed,  and  to 
sleep,  she  must  not  encourage  herself  in  such  feelings  as  she 
described. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Desmond  did  not  come  home;  he  had  apparently  no  thought 
of  home-coming.  He  wrote  a  hurried  line — hurried  lines 
were  all  they  had  from  him — saying  that  his  wound  was 
almost  healed,  it  had  only  been  a  scratch,  and  he  was  being 
attached  to  one  of  the  Mounted  Infantry  Corps. 

It  had  all  to  be  gone  over  again,  the  watching  and  the 
waiting.  They  read  of  Spion  Kop  and  Pieter's  Hill,  heard 
details  and  envisaged  them. 

From  their  window  in  Grosvenor  Street  they  saw,  under 
blue  and  alien  skies,  the  English  soldiers  moving  slowly  over 
the  veldt  in  close  formation,  while  the  distant  guns  or  the 
spitting  pom-poms  raked  their  thinning  columns,  and  from 
the  sheltering  kopjes,  the  Transvaalers,  with  their  deadly 
rifles,  picked  off  the  officers  still  conspicuously  accoutred. 
And  always  under  helmet  or  cap,  they  saw  Desmond's  face, 
smoke-begrimed,  hard-set  and  determined,  his  eyes  blue  and 
alight,  marching  to  danger  or  to  death. 

Desmond  was  mentioned  in  despatches.  Michael  came 
to  them  with  the  news.  Michael  was  proving  himself  in  these 
days.  Like  every  other  Englishman  from  public  school  and 
university,  he  was  ashamed  to  walk  the  streets  of  London 
in  a  black  coat;  his  arms  ached  for  a  gun,  and  his  heart  for 
his  country.  Duty  held  him  here,  his  father  was  getting  an 
old  man,  and  had  no  other  son.  Michael  was  as  brave  at  his 
post  as  our  soldiers  at  theirs,  although  his  post  was  only  an 
office.  Lady  Grindelay  and  Eunice  had  not  to  wait  for  the 
newspapers.  He  haunted  the  War  Office,  was  often  before  the 
evening  papers  with  news. 

There  was  no  meanness  in  Michael.  He  loved  the  girl  in 
her  pallor  and  anxiety  better  than  he  had  loved  her  that 
sunny  day  in  Cornwall,  and  he  knew  his  love  was  for  ever. 
But  her  heart  was  with  Desmond.  That,  too,  he  knew  now, 
and  he  brought  her  the  tale  of  his  bravery  as  he  would  have 

173 


174  FULL  SWING 

brought  her  his  heart's  blood  if  it  would  have  helped  her  pale 
anxiety.  The  tale  of  Desmond's  bravery  was  one  of  many 
that  helped  to  cover  the  incompetence  of  our  generals,  the 
failure  of  our  Intelligence  Department,  the  insufficiency  of 
our  cavalry. 

In  one  of  the  little  engagements,  when  the  order  to  retreat 
was  sounded,  young  Lord  Grindelay  disregarded  it.  He  gal- 
loped forward  to  the  help  of  a  comrade,  caught  at  the  horse's 
bridle,  held  up  the  wounded  man,  and  cantered  back  calmly, 
through  a  dropping  patter  of  bullets.  There  was  no  Victoria 
Cross  for  such  a  deed,  there  were  too  many  of  them.  But  he 
was  mentioned  in  despatches,  was  recognised  as  a  promising 
young  officer. 

Again  they  hoped.  Surely  the  end  of  the  war  was  in  sight. 
Any  day  the  news  of  the  relief  of  Ladysmith  might  come  and 
that  would  mean  the  end. 

"  Lest  we  forget/' 

So  much  has  been  forgotten,  but  never  this,  surely  never 
this.    The  appalling  day  when  there  brooded  over  London,  over 
the  country,  a  fear  that  knocked  like  a  li\dng*  thing  at  every 
heart,  when  every  face  one  met  in  the  street  was  a  grey  mask, 
and  men  walked  hurriedly  past  their  fellow-men  that  they 
should  not  see  what  it  hid. 
V  Would  White  surrender  ?    Must  White  surrender  ? 
)  In  big  black  type,  on  poster  and  paper,  on  men's  brains, 
and  fear-parched  hearts,  the  words  were  printed. 
^■ 

ATTACK  CONTINUES ;  ENEMY  REINFORCED 

ATTACK  RENEWED 

VERY  HARD  PRESSED 

The  heliograph  broke  off  here.  Men  were  stark  with  ap- 
prehension and  walked  the  streets  that  day  as  one  walks  in 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death ;  death  and  humiliation. 

But  Desmond  was  not  in  Ladysmith.  The  two  women 
who  loved  him  had  that  with  which  to  comfort  themselves. 
A  small,  dry  comfort  at  best,  and  one  that  lasted  but  a  brief 
time.    It  was  difficult  to  follow  the  movements  of  the  units. 


FULL  SWING  175 

difficult  to  understand  the  plan  of  the  scattered  campaign. 
They  thought  him  still  in  the  region  of  Magersfontein,  or 
perhaps  nearing  Kimberley,  when  Michael  came  to  them  un- 
expectedly and  in  haste,  with  a  face  that  showed  them  before 
he  spoke  that  it  was  not  good  tidings  he  bore.  He  could  keep 
nothing  back  from  them  because  in  less  than  an  hour  from 
the  time  he  came  it  might  be  shouted  in  the  streets.  All  the 
bad  news  was  shouted  in  the  streets.  To  those  with  dear  ones 
out  there  in  the  fighting  line  there  was  no  respite,  the  taut 
nerves  were  jangled  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

Again  a  small  reconnoitring  force  had  been  sent  out,  this 
time  imder  the  leadership  of  Lord  Grindelay,  had  unex- 
pectedly met  the  enemy,  and  been  overpowered.  The  enemy 
were  in  shelter,  the  small  reconnoitring  party  was  within  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  of  them  when  they  opened  fire.  A 
Kaffir  guide  had  led  them  straight  into  the  ambush.  The 
rifles  blazed  out,  the  men  fell  like  birds  in  a  drive.  It  was 
one  of  a  hundred  such  stories.  Lord  Grindelay  was  reported 
missing.  Missing.  Michael  could  tell  them  no  more  than 
that  for  many  a  long  day,  although  he  haunted  the  War 
Office.  When  he  heard  more,  he  could  hardly  bear  to  tell 
them.  Yet  always  it  seemed  better  he  should  be  before  the 
newspapers. 

Lord  Grindelay  was  reported  missing  because  his  body 
had  not  been  found.  He  had  led  his  men  into  the  ambush. 
One  of  them,  who  crawled  back  to  camp,  gave  the  cabled 
account  of  what  had  occurred. 

"We  were  marching  along  when,  without  any  warning, 
there  came  a  devil's  hail  of  bullets  and  our  men  began  to 
fall.  Lord  Grindelay  rallied  us  and  we  returned  the  fire 
as  well  as  we  were  able.  Not  that  we'd  anything  to  shoot  at; 
they  were  hidden  behind  kopjes  or  entrenched  in  pits.  I  shot 
every  round  I  had  with  me  before  I  came  away,  but  I  never 
saw  one  reach  its  billet.  They  called  out  to  us  to  surrender; 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  But  young  Lord  Grinde- 
lay, he  wouldn't  have  it  at  any  price.  I  saw  his  horse  shot 
away  under  him  and  that  they'd  shattered  his  arm.  '  Sur- 
render be  damned,  surrender  be  damned ! '  I  heard  him  call 


176  FULL  SWING 

out  all  in  a  rage.  He  kept  shouting  to  the  men  to  keep 
together  and  blazing  away  until  the  last.  Fair  riddled  with 
bullets  he  was  when  he  fell.  .  .  ." 

"Lord  Grindelay  reported  missing,"  was  the  War  Office 
statement.  They  hoped,  they  hoped  until  this  tale  came 
through. 

Then  they  went  back  to  Marley  to  get  through  their  days 
as  well  as  they  were  able.  Agatha's  pain  grew  sometimes  to 
flaming  agony  when  she  thought  of  her  ravaged  motherhood, 
when  she  could  not  get  away  from  the  knowledge  that  she 
had  sent  him  to  his  death. 

She  went  back  to  Marley,  took  up  her  life  as  before,  her 
strangely  altered  life.  She  had  once  thought  she  loved  her 
home,  thought  that  Marley  and  her  responsibilities  there 
would  suffice  her.  Now  the  grey  house  and  green  grounds 
were  empty  and  drear:  the  days  passed  heavily.  Kemorse 
gnawed  at  her  dully  and  continuously,  until  all  her  pride  was 
eaten  away  and  her  strength  with  it. 

When  Monica  ran  away  she  had  been  unhappy,  but  looking 
back  she  remembered  how  much  younger  she  had  been  and 
better  able  to  bear  it.  That  she  had  blundered  in  her  mar- 
riage seemed  nothing  to  her  now,  for  the  blunder  had  given 
her  a  son.  She  had  not  dealt  wisely  with  him,  not  under- 
stood what  had  come  to  her  until  it  was  too  late,  but  now  he 
filled  every  cranny  of  her  mind.  He  had  asked  her  for  Eunice, 
and  she  had  refused;  but  if  he  had  been  given  back  to  her 
she  would  refuse  him  nothing. 

She  and  the  girl  sat  in  the  drawing-room  at  the  work  that 
had  superseded  their  embroidery;  becoming  adepts  in  knit- 
ting stockings,  experts  in  making  bed-jackets,  flannel  coats 
for  hospital  patients,  wristlets,  mittens,  all  the  stores  that 
our  field-hospitals  lacked.  It  was  true  that  Lord  Grindelay 
was  reported  "missing";  his  name  was  not  on  that  long 
endless  roll  of  the  honoured  dead.  But  how  could  hope  sur- 
vive the  scene  they  saw  in  waking  or  sleeping  hours?  The 
useless  arm,  the  shot  horse  falling  under  him,  the  hail  of 
bullets  and  the  defiance  ringing  out,  "  No  surrender,"  on  his 
desperate  lips  as  he  fell.     They  knew  now  that  many  had 


FULL  SWING  177 

been  buried  where  they  fell,  the  Boer  leader  reading  the 
burial  service  over  them,  no  means  of  identification  left. 
If  Desmond  had  been  alive  he  would  have  been  held  for  ran- 
som or  exchange;  news  of  him  would  have  come  through. 

Yet  some  dim  hope  still  smouldered,  although  it  was  but 
as  a  guttering  wick  that  flickered  and  went  out  sometimes  as 
the  slow  days  dragged  on.  Talk  was  difficult  between  them 
at  first,  for  something  lay  behind  speech.  Jealousy,  perhaps, 
and  on  the  girl's  part  in  those  early  days  a  faint  resentment, 
resentment  that  could  not  last,  for  soon  she  saw  that  Lady 
Grindelay's  suffering  was  beyond  her  own,  although  so 
speechless. 

"  Whatever  had  happened  he  would  have  gone  to  the 
war,"  she  burst  out  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  turning  a  heel, 
counting  stitches. 

"  I  made  it  easy  for  him,"  Lady  Grindelay  replied,  speak- 
ing her  thought  aloud.  "But  for  me  he  might  never  have 
gone." 

"  Don't  feel  like  that,  don't  make  it  worse,"  Eunice  cried 
out  and  went  over  to  her  desperately.  "Don't  let  us  be 
silent  with  each  other,  auntie.  Sometimes  I  can't  bear  to  see 
your  hopeless  face." 

She  knelt  beside  her,  hiding  her  own. 

Agatha  went  on  knitting,  the  click  of  the  needles  never 
stopped. 

"  Leave  off  working,  I  can't  bear  the  sound  of  the  needles, 
I  can't  work  any  more.  What's  the  use  of  it?  What's  the 
use  of  anything  ?  "  the  girl  sobbed  weakly. 

"  The  soldiers  are  without  stockings." 

"I  don't  care,  I  only  pretended  to  care.  I  was  only 
working  for  Desmond   and   Desmond's  men,   all   the  time. 

Every  stitch  I  poit  in  was  for  him.    Now  he  isn't  there " 

She  couldn't  speak  for  crying.  She  had  not  meant  to  say 
this,  but  to  comfort  her  aunt  in  some  way,  to  break  the  silence 
of  her  sorrow. 

"  Sometimes  I  don't  believe  it,  I  don't  believe  he  is  dead," 
she  went  on  through  her  tears. 
12 


178  FULL  SWING 

"Don't  buoy  yourself  with  false  hopes.  What  hope  ia 
there  ?  "     Click,  click  went  the  needles. 

"  I  make  stories,  dream  he  has  escaped  or  was  taken  pris- 
oner, was  nursed  by  a  Boer  woman  and  restored  to  us ;  it  helps 
the  days  and  nights." 

"  How  long  can  you  go  on  dreaming  ?  " 

"  Until  the  war  is  ended,  until  all  the  prisoners  are  re- 
leased.    Then — then '' 

"  Speak  out.  What  have  you  in  your  mind  for  when  the 
war  ends?" 

The  click  of  the  needles  helped  the  harshness  of  her  voice. 

"  Then  we  might  go  out  together,  you  and  I,  see  the  place 
where  he  fell,  put  up  a  cross.  But  it  won't  happen,  I  know  it 
won't  happen;  he  can't  be  dead,  our  Desmond." 

And  then  she  cried  more  violently. 

"  You  at  least  have  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  your- 
self," Lady  Grindelay  said,  with  dry  lips,  going  on  mechan- 
ically with  the  violet  woollen  muffler,  her  hands  stained  from 
it.  That  was  what  she  spoke  of  presently.  She  could  not 
afford  to  break  down,  much  of  her  time  was  spent  in  hiding 
her  agony  of  mind. 

"  I  must  try  and  find  some  wool  of  which  the  colour  is 
fast." 

The  sound  of  Eunice  sobbing  went  to  that  place  inside 
her  where  the  pain  was  always;  adding  a  little  to  it.  But 
her  voice  was  steady,  and  there  was  no  pause  in  her  knitting. 

Many  days  there  were  like  these,  many  hours.  Lady 
Grindelay  seemed  to  grow  grey  and  cold  as  the  steel  pins  that 
went  in  and  out  the  wool;  unapproachable.  Eunice  solaced 
herself  with  dreams. 

Meanwhile  in  London  something  was  happening  that  was 
to  affect  them  both,  something  which  even  now  Andrew  and 
Michael  were  on  their  way  to  tell  them. 

Michael,  perhaps  with  the  same  hope  that  Eunice  cher- 
ished, still  went  daily  to  the  War  Office,  still  tried  to  believe 
Desmond  was  only  missing,  not  dead,  that  there  would  yet  be 
news  of  him. 

He  came  back  one  day  from  that  fruitless  visit,  hot  foot 


FULL  SWING  179 

to  his  father.  Andrew  was  at  work  as  usual.  The  world  went 
on  although  to  many  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  standing  still 
everywhere  but  out  there  in  South  Africa.  But  in  the 
McKay  office  leases  were  still  being  prepared,  and  assignments, 
even  marriage  settlements.  Andrew  put  his  pen  down  when 
he  saw  Michael's  face. 

"  You  have  news  ?  " 

"  Father,  is  there  any  other  Lady  Grindelay  but  the  one 
we  know?'' 

"Than  Agatha?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Of  course  not ;  why  do  you  ask  ?    How  could  there  be  ?  " 

"  There  couldn't  be  ?    You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  There  is  another  Lady  Grindelay,  or  a  woman  who  calls 
herself  so,  asking  daily  at  the  War  Office  for  news  of  Des- 
mond. I  heard  a  rumour  of  it  once  or  twice  but  did  not  credit 
it,  thought  there  had  been  some  mistake.  But  I  have  just  seen 
her;  spoken  to  her." 

"  Spoken  to  Lady  Grindelay !  " 

"  To  a  woman  who  calls  herself  by  that  name." 

"What  is  she  like?" 

''  Good-looking,  in  rather  a  common  way ;  a  woman  of 
about  four-  or  iive-and-thirty." 

"  Not  more  ?    You  are  sure  she  is  not  more  ?  " 

"  About  that  I  should  think,  certainly  under  forty.  Why? 
Have  you  anyone  in  your  mind,  any  idea?  I  was  startled 
by  the  incident,  wondering  who  she  could  be." 

"I  was  thinking  of  Biddy  Malone,  Desmond's  old  nurse 
from  Ireland.  She  would  do  anything,  impersonate  anybody, 
to  get  news  of  him." 

"This  was  not  Biddy  Malone.  This  was  a  woman  with 
red  hair  and  thin  features,  a  good-looking  woman,  not  quite  a 
lady,  but  not  of  the  servant  class,  nor  an  Irishwoman." 

"  Did  you  question  her  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  time.  She  spoke  to  me.  '  You  also  are  inquir- 
ing about  Lord  Grindelay  ?  Alas !  there  is  still  no  news,'  she 
said,  passing  me  swiftly.     But  she  was  dry-eyed,  the  'alas' 


180  FULL  SWING 

sounded  like  affectation.  I  made  inquiries,  they  told  me  she 
had  been  there  every  day." 

Father  and  son  looked  at  each  other;  there  fell  a  short 
silence  between  them.  Then  Andrew  spoke  slowly.  He  said 
only  one  word,  but  he  said  it  deliberately : 

"Desmond?" 

"  Impossible,"  answered  Michael  hotly. 

"  Nothing  is  impossible." 

"  That  would  be." 

"  Why  ?  "  The  question  shot  out.  "  Desmond  is  not  very 
steady.  We  saw  little  of  him  while  he  was  at  Bird's ;  he  came 
seldom  to  the  house.  What  makes  you  say  it  is  impossible  that 
this  woman  has  anj'thing  to  do  with  him,  that  he  did  not 
become  entangled  ?  "  Andrew  thought  he  knew  more  about 
the  ways  of  young  men  than  his  son. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  Michael  answered  doggedly,  loyally. 

"Because?" 

It  broke  from  him  then: 

*'  Because  Desmond  was  in  love  with  Eunice." 

"With  Eunice?" 

"  It  was  only  Desmond's  mother  who  stood  between  them. 
Eunice  told  me  herself.  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  with  some  difficulty. 

"  Then  that  was  why " 

The  enlightenment,  the  exclamation  fell  from  Andrew 
involuntarily.     Michael  turned  his  back  on  his  father. 

"  Yes,  that  was  why  I  failed  with  her.  We  won't  speak 
further  of  it  if  you  don't  mind." 

Andrew  had  never  understood  why  Michael  came  back 
from  Cornwall  without  any  announcement  to  make.  He  had 
been  disappointed,  but  vsdse  enough  not  to  show  it.  He  knew 
if  there  was  anything  to  hear  he  would  have  been  told.  Now 
he  began  to  understand.  He  would  have  liked  to  say  a  word 
of  sympathy,  to  have  reminded  his  son  that  the  girl  was  still 
young,  Desmond  dead.  But  he  refrained,  thinking  it  was 
better  to  say  nothing,  to  go  on  with  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  You  heard  no  more  about  this  woman  than  that  she  had 
been  there  every  day ;  not  where  she  lives,  nor  anything  else  ?  " 


FULL  SWING  181 

"  Nothing."  Michael  was  recovering  himself,  grateful  to 
his  father  because  the  words  of  sympathy  had  not  been  spoken. 

"  You  must  go  again  to-morrow,  make  a  point  of  speaking 
to  her  if  she  is  there.  If  not,  try  to  find  out  where  she  comes 
from,  whether  anyone  knows  anything  about  her." 

"  I  had  first  to  make  sure  there  was  no  one  else  entitled 
to  bear  the  name,  no  other  branch  of  the  family." 

"  No  one  but  Desmond's  wife,  if  he  had  one,  could  be 
entitled  to  call  herself  Lady  Grindelay.  This  is  either  an 
impostor,  or — God  grant  there  is  no  more  trouble  coming  to 
that  poor  woman  !  " 

"  I  feel  confident  ahout  Desmond." 

"  I  wish  I  did,"  his  father  answered  dryly. 


CHAPTEK  XVII 

Gabrielle  had  no  longer  any  object  in  concealing  Desmond's 
secret,  or  her  own,^  rather  she  had  everything  to  gain  by 
betraying  it.  She  told  Michael  the  whole  story  the  very  next 
day  when  they  met  at  the  War  Office,  with  complete  candour, 
brutal  candour.     He  apologised  for  addressing  her. 

''I  understand  that  you  are  inquiring  for  Lord  Grin- 
delay?" 

"  Oh !  yes.  I  am  Lady  Grindelay,  that  is  my  name.  I 
have  seen  you  here  before,  you  are  perhaps  a  relative  of  my 
husband's?" 

"Your  husband's?" 
"  You  are  a  relative  of  Desmond's  ?  " 
"  JSTo ! "     Michael  was   startled,  uncertain  what  to  say, 
shocked.     "I  am — we  are — my  father  and  I  are  the  family 
solicitors." 

"  Then  you  must  be  '  Michael '  ?  Of  course  I  have  heard 
him  speak  of  you.  There  is  no  news  again  to-day.  It  seems 
as  if  we  never  shall  have  more  news  now.  I  have  quite  lost 
hope." 

She  was  dressed  all  in  black,  but  there  was  no  sign  of 
mourning  in  her  face.  When  Michael  first  spoke  to  her  she 
had  smiled,  and  shown  her  teeth,  small,  white,  even  teeth,  and 
the  smile  was  attractive.  Her  smile  was  for  any  man,  for 
all  men,  even  this  stiff  young  lawyer.  But  now  she  altered  her 
tactics. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  hear  of  Desmond's  marriage  ?  It 
was  he  who  wanted  it  kept  secret,  not  I,"  she  said  quickly. 
"  He  told  me  he  would  not  be  sent  out,  he  might  not  have  got 
his  commission  if  he  had  been  known  as  a  married  man.  He 
was  so  keen  to  go  to  the  war." 

She  was  full  of  explanation,  too  full,  too  ready  altogether 
to  talk  and  explain  and  admit  his  right  to  question  her. 
Michael  resented  her  smile,  her  voluble  talk,  everything  about 
her. 

182 


FULL  SWING  183 

When  she  saw  how  unappreciative  he  was  she  changed 
her  smile  to  a  sigh. 

"  Poor  boy !  And  now  it  seems  he  will  never  come  back ! 
He  will  never  see  his  little  daughter." 

"  His  daughter ! "  Michael  exclaimed,  unable  to  disguise 
his  disgust, 

"  It  was  bom  before  its  time " 

She  may  have  reddened,  Michael  was  not  sure.  They 
were  standing  together  on  the  steps  of  the  War  Office,  and 
the  sun  was  in  his  eyes. 

"You  can,  of  course,  give  proof  of  what  you  are  telling 
me  ? ''    He  was  beginning  to  recover  himself. 

She  glanced  at  him,  she  was  taking  his  measure.  Can- 
dour suited  her  purpose,  she  had  no  longer  anything  to  gain 
by  concealment. 

"  Of  course.  Do  you  doubt  me  ?  I  am  not  lying  to  you. 
We  were  married  at  the  Notting  Hill  Eegistry  Office  a  week 
before  he  sailed.    You  can  see  the  entry." 

When  they  went  down  the  steps  of  the  War  Office,  she 
suggested  that  Michael  should  walk  home  with  her. 

"  I  can  show  you  letters  from  him.  He  made  a  will  before 
he  left.  I  have  that  too,  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  it." 
She  was  quite  malicious  now,  and  seemed  to  have  pleasure 
in  giving  him  proof  of  her  statement. 

"  You  say  you  have  a  child  by  him,  that  she  is  some  weeks 
old!" 

"Bom  prematurely."  There  was  no  blush  about  her, 
and  her  step  by  his  side  was  quite  brisk.  Michael  thought 
her  utterly  shameless  and  was  quite  revolted  by  her,  although 
he  went  on  mechanically  walking  by  her  side.  He  had  not  to 
use  any  skill  in  cross-examining  her,  nor  any  detective  quality 
to  understand  that  she  was  admitting  the  reason  Desmond 
married  her  before  his  departure.  He  went  in  at  her  invi- 
tation when  they  reached  the  flat,  and  saw  the  marriage  cer- 
tificate, the  outside  of  the  will.  He  even  heard  the  cry  of  a 
b?,by  from  some  inner  room.  ISTothing  was  wanting  for  his 
enlightenment. 

The  flat  was  in  Buckingham  Palace  Gardens.    The  sitting- 


184  FULL  SWING 

room  into  which  Gabrielle  took  Michael  was  handsomely  fur- 
nished, full  of  flowers,  heaped  with  disorderly  expensive 
things,  redolent  of  scent,  suggestive.  Only  the  cry  of  the 
baby  was  incongruous  as  it  came  through  the  wall. 

"I  can't  go  on  like  this  any  longer,"  she  told  Michael 
after  she  had  shown  him  her  proofs.  "  I  have  waited  as  long 
as  I  am  able.  If  he  had  not  been  killed  I  would  have  kept 
the  secret  until  he  came  back,  but  as  it  is,  what  is  the  use  ?  " 
She  shrugged  her  expressive  shoulders.  ^'  One  cannot  live 
without  money.  If  you  had  not  spoken  to  me  to-day  I  should 
have  had  to  look  you  up." 

Michael  saw  for  himself  that  she  could  not  go  on  living 
in  this  way  without  money. 

Now  Desmond  was  no  longer  there  to  draw  against  it,  his 
allowance  was  not  paid  into  the  bank.  His  mother's  allow- 
ance to  Desmond  had  been  a  liberal  one,  and  had  provided  all 
these  luxuries. 

"If  you  will  read  his  will" — Michael  had  the  document 
in  his  hand  but  had  not  opened  it —  "  you  will  see  that  he  has 
left  me  everything  he  had." 

"  Desmond  had  nothing  to  leave." 

Michael  was  embarrassed  at  the  position  in  which  he  found 
himself,  explaining  to  this  woman  of  whose  very  existence  he 
had  been  unaware  four-and-twenty  hours  ago,  that  practically 
Desmond  had  been  dependent  upon  his  mother's  generosity, 
that  the  Languedoc  estate  brought  in  nothing.  But  she  was 
not  embarrassed,  nor  backward  in  examining  him  quickly, 
cleverly,  closely.  Desmond  had  told  her  something  of  his 
dependence  upon  his  mother,  but  she  wanted  it  confirmed. 

"  In  any  case,  there  will  be  my  pension." 

Michael  got  away  from  her  as  soon  as  he  could,  as  soon 
as  she  would  let  him.  She  was  a  new  experience  to  Michael, 
and  one  with  whom  he  felt  himself  unable  to  cope.  He  went 
back  to  his  father  when  at  last  he  made  his  escape. 

"  You  must  see  her,  father.  I  can  hardly  convey  to  you 
her  self-assurance,  want  of  taste  or  feeling,  her  manner  gen- 
erally. She  seems  utterly  callous  to  his  fate,  thinking  only 
of  what  provision  there  is  for  her.     She  assumes  quite  coolly 


FUIyL  SWING  185 

that  Desmond's  mother  will  accept  her  story ;  that  we  shall.  I 
don't  see  what  else  we  can  do.  I  have  never  met  anyone  at 
all  like  her.  There  certainly  was  a  baby — I  heard  it.  It 
seems  incredible.  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  see  her  your- 
self." 

Andrew  questioned  him,  letting  all  other  work  stand  over 
while  he  considered  this. 

"  You  say  she  Is  four  or  five-and-thirty,  twelve  or  fourteen 
years  Desmond's  senior.  "Where  did  they  meet?  How  long 
had  they  known  each  other  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  ask,  I  was  so  overwhelmed.  You  had  suggested 
the  explanation  of  her  calling  herself  Lady  Grindelay,  but 
when  I  spoke  to  her  I  still  did  not  believe  it;  I  thought  it 
impossible." 

"  We  can't  do  anything  without  consulting  Agatha.  I 
don't  think  we  can  move  without  that.  But  I  will  see  the 
woman  myself  first,  as  you  say,  question  her,  make  certain. 
I  suppose  you  have  seen  the  original  of  the  certificate  ?  " 

"  I  went  up  to  the  registry  office  on  my  way  here.  Every- 
thing is  in  order;  the  clerk  witnessed,  he  remembers  it  per- 
fectly." 

"  Has  she  got  a  telephone  ?  Get  on  to  the  telephone  and 
ask  for  an  appointment  for  me.  We  mustn't  waste  time.  We 
can't  risk  Agatha  hearing  of  this  from  anyone  but  us.  Let 
me  see,  to-day  is  Thursday.  If  she  must  be  told,  if  the  in- 
credible story  is  true,  we  had  better  go  down  to  Marley  on 
Saturday.  We  must  break  it  gently  if  it  has  to  be  broken.  I 
shan't  wire,  but  just  write  a  line  offering  ourselves  for  a  visit. 
It's  a  dreadful  business.  Twelve  or  fourteen  years  older  than 
he  is !  Not  a  word  to  anybody !  What  could  the  boy  have 
been  thinking  of  ?  I'll  write  Agatha  a  line  myself.  It  will  go 
hard  with  her  if  this  woman  is  all  you  describe.  Not  that 
there  is  ever  any  saying  what  Agatha  will  feel  called  upon  to 
do.  She  may  think  she  is  bound  to  adopt  the  baby,  open  her 
house  to  the  woman.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  she  will 
do."    But  he  was  filled  with  sympathy  for  his  old  friend. 

Gabrielle  Radlett  was  quite  as  frank  with  Andrew  in  their 
interview  as  she  had  been  with  Michael,  more  so  perhaps. 


186  FULL  SWING 

In  some  ways  she  had  always  found  old  men  more  easily  dealt 
with  than  young  ones.  Michael  had  been  very  stiff  and  re- 
served with  Gabrielle.  Andrew,  recognising^  in  less  than  ten 
minutes  where  she  stood  in  the  kingdom  of  women,  met  her 
there,  displapng  no  distaste,  encouraging  her  to  talk,  getting 
from  her  one  or  two  clues  that  were  useful  to  him  later  on. 
She  compared  him  favourably  with  his  son,  thinking  to  please 
him,  saying  she  was  satisfied  to  leave  her  affairs  in  his  hands, 
that  he  must  get  what  he  could  for  her  from  Desmond's 
mother  if  it  were  true  that  Desmond's  own  estate  would  really 
be  so  small.  He  learnt  now  that  she  had  nursed  Desmond 
through  his  illness. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  do  the  best  you  can  for  me,"  she  said 
with  emphasis. 

It  had  been  her  trade  to  flatter  men,  she  had  no  reason  to 
think  this  grizzled  one  was  an  exception. 

Andrew's  face  was  grave  when  he  left  her.  She  was  so 
much  worse  than  he  had  expected ;  so  entirely  beyond  the  pale. 
He  could  not  see  Agatha  accepting  her  son's  wife,  nor  him- 
self advising  her  to.  But  he  knew  Agatha's  sense  of  duty, 
and  how  impossible  it  was  to  influence  her.  No  one,  not  even 
he,  could  be  sure  of  how  she  would  act. 

He  went  down  to  Marley  on  Saturday,  full  of  misgiving. 
Michael  was  with  him,  each  with  his  heart  full  of  the  two  to 
whom  they  were  not  taking  solace,  but  something  worse  than 
grief.  The  train  went  on  and  they  read  their  newspapers; 
there  was  little  they  could  say  to  each  other.  Michael  allowed 
himself  to  dwell  on  what  might  happen  when  Eunice  knew  of 
Desmond's  marriage.  He  was  really  delicate-minded,  and 
when  he  believed  Desmond  was  dead,  he  had  respected  her 
grief,  not  hoped,  nor  thought  of  himself  at  all.  But  this  was 
different.  Desmond  married  was  less  a  rival  than  Desmond 
dead,  and  Michael  allowed  himself  to  dream  on  his  way  to 
Marley. 

The  brougham  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  station.  Lady 
Grindelay  and  Eunice  met  them  at  the  lodge.  Somehow  or 
other,  perhaps  because  Gabrielle  had  worn  black,  they  were 
glad  to  find  neither  Agatha  nor  Eunice  in  mourning.    Eunice 


FULL  SWING  187 

was  pale  in  her  white  summer  skirt  and  pink  shirt.  Lady 
Grindelay  had  not  abandoned  her  old-fashioned  clothes,  but 
now  they  seemed  becoming  and  appropriate  to  her.  She  was 
over  sixty  and  had  no  wish  to  disguise  her  age.  She  wore  a 
tailor-made  coat  and  skirt;  no  hat  was  on  her  grey  hair  that 
had  been  allowed  to  grow  and  was  now  in  a  smooth  knot ;  her 
figure  was  still  slender  and  upright,  the  instep'  still  high  and 
well  booted.  She  was  careful  about  her  hands,  and  wore  wash- 
leather  gloves.  Her  complexion  had  faded,  but  there  were 
few  wrinkles.  This  was  the  first  visit  the  McKays  had  paid 
to  Marley  since  Desmond  went  away,  and  all  of  them  wanted 
to  avoid  remembering  it,  to  keep  from  any  untoward  allusion 
or  remembrance.  As  they  walked  through  the  garden  to  the 
house  Andrew  heard  about  the  erratic  Odontoglossum.  They 
spoke  also  of  the  roses  and  their  late  flowering,  of  the  scents 
from  the  herb  garden. 

,  All  through  luncheon  they  kept  up  the  pretence  that 
nothing  had  changed  since  they  were  here  before,  speaking 
again  of  the  orchid  and  the  changes  in  orchid  culture.  Andrew 
told  of  his  triumphs  in  the  small  Campden  Hill  hothouse. 
Lady  Grindelay  said  that  if  the  Odontoglossum  were  to 
flower  now,  it  would  seem  like  a  miracle,  as  if  the  clock  had 
been  put  back.  All  of  them  knew  the  story  of  how  she  had 
opened  the  door  of  the  orchid  house  when  she  was  a  child 
because  she  thought  that  plants,  like  children,  should  have 
fresh  air.    She  promised  Andrew  a  cutting. 

Over  their  coffee  Michael  commented  intolerantly  on  the 
incompetence  or  folly  of  this  or  the  other  general,  spoke  of 
the  growing  enteric  lists ;  Andrew  talked  of  the  various  organi- 
sations of  which  Lady  Grindelay  was  the  president  or 
patroness,  and  of  how  funds  and  offers  of  help  were  coming 
in,  Eunice  was  enthusiastic  about  Eudyard  Kipling's  lyric 
appeal. 

Instinctively  Agatha  knew  Andrew  had  something  to  tell 
her;  they  had  been  friends  for  so  long  that  she  could  read 
him  through.  She  knew  that  when  he  talked  so  freely  it  was 
for  concealment.     What  he  was  not  saying  was  what  she 


188  .  FULL  SWING 

wanted  to  hear.  It  could  not  be  good  news,  or  he  would  have 
told  her  at  once. 

"  May  I  take  you  out  on  the  river  after  lunch  ?  "  Michael 
asked  Eunice  when  they  could  no  longer  linger  over  their 
coffee. 

Eunice  looked  questioningly  at  her  aunt,  and  Lady  Grin- 
delay  answered  quickly: 

"  That  is  a  good  idea  of  yours,  Michael.  Eunice  does  not 
go  out  nearly  enough.    She  thinks  it  her  duty  to  sit  with  me." 

"  I  don't  do  it  for  duty." 

Agatha,  ignoring  the  interruption,  went  on : 

'*"  You  need  not  hurry  back.  Your  father  and  I  will  find 
plenty  to  say  to  each  other." 

Eunice  went  out  with  Michael  at  her  aunt's  bidding. 
Whenever  the  McKays  came  down,  there  was  an  hour  or  so 
of  business  talk ;  it  was  nothing  unusual  to  leave  her  aunt  and 
the  old  law;>'er  together  to  talk  business.  Agatha  knew  in- 
stinctively that  this  occasion  was  different.  When  the  hall 
door  closed  behind  the  young  people  she  asked  him  at  once: 

*'  What  have  you  come  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  So  you  guessed  ?  " 

*'  It  would  be  strange,  after  all  these  years,  if  I  did  not 
know  when  you  had  something  on  your  mind." 

He  did  not  attempt  to  contradict  her,  to  say  that  he  had 
nothing  on  his  mind.  They  were  still  in  the  dining-room, 
and  now  he  held  the  door  open  for  her, 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

*'  Wait  until  we  get  into  the  library,"  he  answered.  He 
was  in  no  hurry  with  his  news. 

The  library,  with  high,  mullioned  windows,  walls  rich  with 
heavy  tomes  in  leather  bindings,  had  an  air  of  great  seclusion, 
calm  remoteness.  He  thought  he  would  find  it  easier  to  tell 
her  there.  She  seated  herself  at  one  of  the  tables,  but  he 
remained  silent,  hardly  knowing  in  what  words  to  clothe  his 
news. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  afraid  to  tell  me  ?  "  For  he  was  not 
speaking.     "Is  there  more  trouble  with  the  Irish  tenants? 


FULL  SWING  189 

Are  they  boycotting  me  ?  Or  has  one  of  my  investments  gone 
wrong?  " 

She  thought  nothing  he  could  tell  her  could  affect  her 
greatly.  The  news  he  was  bringing  her  could  hardly  be  from 
South  Africa.  She  knew  the  worst  there  was  to  tell  from 
there;  she  had  abandoned  hope,  even  if  Eunice  had  not;  she 
could  not  solace  herself  with  dreams  as  the  girl  did. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  What  could  have  happened 
that  would  distress  or  move  me  now?"  She  gave  a  short 
sigh.  "  Don't  look  as  if  the  world  had  come  to  an  end,  speak 
out,  you  will  find  I  can  bear  anything  you  have  to  tell  me. 
What  is  wrong  in  Languedoc  or  Marley  ?  " 

Andrew  always  took  her  affairs  seriously  and  with  Scotch 
caution.  An  unlet  or  boycotted  farm,  a  drop  in  the  value  of 
a  security,  never  seemed  of  small  importance  to  him.  But 
she  cared  so  little,  so  much  less  than  ever. 

On  Andrew's  table,  the  big  library  table  always  known  as 
Andrew's,  where  many  documents  of  the  estate  were  kept,  were 
parcels  ready  packed  and  addressed,  big,  bulky  paxcels. 

Andrew  stood  and  looked  at  them. 

"  You  must  have  been  working  very  hard,  you  and  Eunice. 
I  should  think  you  were  working  too  hard." 

Now  that  he  looked  at  her,  he  saw  that  her  colour  was 
grey,  that  she  had  grown  thin. 

"  Have  you  been  ill,  Agatha  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of — nothing  that  matters.  Go  on 
with  what  you  have  to  say  to  me."  But  he  would  not  accept 
her  answer.  Perhaps  he  was  glad  to  put  off  telling  his  news 
a  little  longer. 

"  Have  you  seen  a  doctor?    Has  Eeid  been  up?  " 

"You  have  something  to  break  to  me,  then — something 
very  bad  and  bitter  ?  "  They  knew  each  other  so  well.  "  My 
health  is  well  enough  to  stand  it ;  go  on  !  " 

"  Sixteen  parcels  altogether !  I've  been  counting  them. 
Stockings  and  mufflers  for  an  entire  regiment.  You  have 
been  doing  too  much." 

"  We  had  a  working  bee.  This  is  not  all  Eunice  and  my- 
self.   What  is  the  trouble,  Andrew  ?    What  news  can  there  be 


190  FULL  SWING 

that  is  not  from  South  Africa,  and  that  you  are  hesitating  so 
to  tell  me  ?  Have  I  lost  money  ?  A  great  deal  of  money  ?  " 
And  then  she  added  with  some  bitterness :  "  What  do  I  want 
money  for  now  ?  Eunice  has  enough,  and  I  have  no  son ! " 
Then  she  added  quickly,  rising  from  her  chair  as  she  spoke : 

"  Your  news  is  about  Desmond !  " 

"  Sit  down — sit  down." 

"  What  news  have  you  brought  me  ?  " 

"  Bad  news !  "  he  said  briefly. 

"  About  Desmond  ?  "  Her  courage  broke.  "  Not  disgrace, 
Andrew ;  don't  tell  me  it  is  disgrace !  Leave  me  my  pride  in 
him,  let  me  think  that  he  died  like  an  Englishman,  like  a 
hero;  don't  tell  me  differently."  Now  she  was  gripping  the 
edge  of  the  table,  and  there  was  fear  in  her  eyes ;  always  she 
saw  the  spectre  of  his  drunken  father.  What  could  it  be  that 
Andrew  found  so  hard  to  tell  her  ?  "  You  have  heard  a  dif- 
ferent account  of  his  death  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  or  anybody  else  knows,  Desmond  fell  as  an 
Englishman  should,  calling  out  '  No  surrender ! '  with  his 
dying  lips." 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!  Then  you  can  tell  me 
nothing  to  hurt  me."  She  put  her  hand  to  her  side  and  sat 
down  abruptly. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  news  I  bring  is  going  to  hurt  you." 

"  I  can  bear  anything  since  he  died  like  that.    Go  on." 

He  spoke  briefly,  curtly,  since  she  had  to  know. 

"  There  is  a  woman  who  has  been  haunting  the  War  Office. 
Michael  met  her  there  several  times,  inquiring  for  news  of 
Desmond.  At  my  suggestion  he  spoke  to  her.  She  told  him, 
as  she  had  told  the  War  Office  authorities,  that  she  was  Lady 
Grindelay." 

He  let  this  sink  in,  then  added,  after  a  short  pause : 

"  She  claims  to  be  Desmond's  widow !  " 

"  Desmond's  widow !  " 

The  words  were  strange.  She  repeated  them :  "  Desmond's 
widow  !  " 

And  then  it  was  he,  not  she,  who  was  surprised,  for  she 
added : 


FULL  SWING  191 

"  He  married  her  ?  He  did  what  was  right  ?  "  Her  face 
was  illumined.  '*  My  son!"  The  words  were  whispered, 
but  he  heard  the  pride  in  them,  the  utter  pride. 

Astonished  and  incredulous,  he  exclaimed: 

"  Then  you  knew  ?  " 

"I  was  in  his  confidence."  She  was  glad  to  be  able  to 
say  it. 

"  You  knew  he  was  married  ?  "  Even  now  Andrew  was 
incredulous. 

"  That  it  was  possible." 

"Perhaps,  too,  you  are  acquainted  with  the  lady?"  he 
asked  satirically.  "Perhaps  you  approved  of  her  as  a 
daughter-in-law  ?  "  As  he  had  told  Michael,  there  was  never 
any  way  of  counting  upon  Agatha  or  foreseeing  where  her 
distorted  conscientiousness  would  lead  her. 

"  Ko,  I  don't  know  her,"  Agatha  answered  slowly. 

"Well,  that's  one  good  thing,"  he  exclaimed,  brutally 
enough.  "  If  he  married  with  your  consent,  you  gave  it  at 
least  with  your  eyes  shut — as  usual,"  he  added  as  an  after- 
thought. 

"  Why  ?  "    Her  question  shot  out. 

"  Because  she  is  a  common "    He  had  the  grace  not  to 

say  the  word.    "  And  ten  years  his  senior  at  the  very  least !  " 

The  question  had  shot,  out,  but  the  answer  was  a  bullet  that 
reached  its  mark.  Before  the  smoke  of  it  had  passed  away 
he  was  by  her  side  in  alarm;  he  was  asking  if  he  should  get 
brandy  for  her,  ring  for  her  maid.  The  pain  had  gripped 
her  suddenly. 

"Don't  ring!"  she  got  out  faintly.  "It  is  nothing — it 
will  pass ! " 

He  waited,  stood  by  her  side  and  waited  for  her  to  recover 
herself.  He  was  acutely  sorry  for  her;  wished  she  were  less 
reserved,  more  like  other  women.  He  stood  irresolutely,  seeing 
now  how  ill  she  looked,  and  altered,  wondering  what  she 
would  say  or  do, 

"You  have  no  doubt  she  is  of  the  class  3'ou  describe?^' 
she  asked  him,  after  a  pause. 

"None  at  all,"  he  answered. 


192  FULL  SWING 

"  Tell  me  all  you  know." 

"  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  wait  a  little  ?  You  don't 
look  fit  to  hear  it.  You  must  recollect  you  are  not  so  young 
as  you  were." 

But  she  was  indomitable. 

"I  shall  never  be  any  younger.  Go  on,  please — go  on, 
tell  me  all  you  know." 

"  Well,  if  you  insist.  .  .  ." 

He  began  to  tell  her  everything  that  the  woman  who 
called  herself  Desmond's  wife  had  told  him,  and  the  little 
they  had  learned  to  supplement  it.  When  he  would  have 
paused,  she  made  him  go  on,  nor  would  be  let  off  anything; 
it  was  not  her  way  to  evade  pain. 

"  And  now  the  question  is :  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 
he  said,  when  he  had  finished.  He  wondered  of  what  partic- 
ular folly  she  would  be  guilty;  made  sure  she  would  wish  to 
reform  the  woman,  adopt  the  baby,  or  take  some  course 
equally  inadvisable.    But  Agatha  could  still  surprise  him. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  quite  certain  that  my  son  is  dead  ?  "  she 
asked  heavily. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  is  but  little  hope,"  he  answered  sadly. 

"  Then  she  must  be  bribed  to  remain  silent,"  she  said  sur- 
prisingly. 

Lady  Grindelay  was  not  thinking  now  of  the  woman  who 
called  herself  her  son's  wife,  of  the  child,  or  of  herself.  Her 
son  had  loved  Eunice,  and  she  him.  Eunice  was  all  that  was 
left  to  her  to  shelter.  The  girl  had  come  to  her  room  in  the 
dead  of  night  for  comfort  or  assurance.  She  thought  of  that 
other  time  when,  with  her  head  in  Agatha's  lap,  Eunice  had 
sobbed  out  how  she  could  not  believe  that  Desmond  was  really 
dead,  lost  to  them ;  how  she  still  saw  him  in  dreams ;  how,  in 
happy  dreams,  he  came  back.  Those  dreams  must  not  be 
spoiled. 

"  We  must  keep  this  from  Eunice.  Eunice  must  never 
know ! " 

"  But  how  on  earth  is  it  to  be  kept  from  her  ?  " 

"  You  must  think  of  a  way,"  she  repeated. 

"  It  is  quite  impossible." 


FULL  SWING  193 

"  Nothing  is  impossible.    You  say  she  wants  money  ?  " 

"  I  say  she  is  Desmond's  wife — or  widow." 

Never  yet  had  Agatha  acted  as  other  women  did;  it  ap- 
peared she  would  not  do  so  now. 

"  You  need  not  go  on  sajdng  it.  That  does  not  help  at 
all.  Eunice  must  be  allowed  to  keep  her  ideals,  her  dreams, 
for  a  little  while — at  least  for  a  little  while.  Andrew,  don't 
oppose  me;  think  of  how  to  help  me — there  must  be  a  way 
out.  Andrew,  you  have  guessed  right.  I  am  ill,  how  ill  they 
don't  know  yet.  I  saw  Dr.  Reid  yesterday.  He  wants  me  to 
have  a  man  down  from  town.  He  thinks — ^well,  there  is  no 
doubt  there  is  some  sort  of  growth — tumour,  cancer — some 
sort  of  growth.  Don't  look  like  that ;  I  am  over  sixty.  Death 
must  have  some  excuse,  3^ou  don't  expect  you  are  going  to  live 
for  ever,  either,  do  you  ?  The  girl  is  fond  of  me,  I  believe." 
Agatha's  voice  did  not  falter.  "  She  is  all  I  have  left.  I  am 
not  going  to  have  her  hurt.  She  must  not  have  everything  to 
bear  at  once,  my  illness  and  this  news.  The  woman  must  be 
bribed  to  remain  quiet.  I  may  get  well  again,  I  am  almost 
sure  to  recover  from  this  first  operation.  Andrew,  I  have  not 
asked  often  for  help ;  help  me  to  keep  this  from  her !  " 

She  had  shown  no  sign  of  weakness  until  she  made  this 
appeal.  And  then,  of  course,  Andrew  could  not  resist  her. 
He  thought  it  all  wrong,  wi'ong  and  foolish,  and  that  the 
secret  would  be  sure  to  come  out.  He  thought  that  if  Eunice 
knew  now  that  the  cousin  to  whom  she  was  so  attached  had 
deceived  her  and  tied  himself  to  another  woman,  pride  would 
come  to  her  aid,  pride — and  Michael.  Michael  would  console 
her.  But  what  Agatha  had  told  him  overwhelmed  him,  made 
it  impossible  to  oppose  her. 

"  I  suppose  you  must  have  your  own  way,"  he  said  in  the 
end,  when  he  had  exhausted  his  arguments.  "  You  always 
have  your  own  way."  He  refrained  from  telling  her  where 
that  way  had  so  often  led.  He  was  so  sorry  for  her;  he  had 
never  known  her  ill,  and  this  was  such  a  dreadful  illness.  He 
yielded  his  Judgment,  promised  her  that  so  far  as  he  and 
Michael  were  concerned  the  secret  should  be  kept. 
13 


194  FULL  SWING 

Agatha,  strangely  enough,  was  concerned  only  for  Eunice. 
The  news  had  not  affected  her  in  any  other  way.  She  felt 
that  she  had  driven  Desmond  to  this  marriage,  and  that  all 
that  mattered  was  that  Eunice  should  not  know  it,  and  his 
memory  should  not  he  besmirched. 

"  I  will  make  any  sacrifice  of  money.  The  woman  you 
describe  can  surely  be  tempted  with  money?  Make  it  clear 
to  her  that  Desmond  had  nothing  to  leave,  but  that  I  will 
give  her  what  I  would  have  given  him — even  more,  that  I 
will  give  her  anything  in  reason  if  she  will  cease  to  call  her- 
self Lady  Grindelay,  if  she  will  keep  the  whole  affair  a  secret 
for  the  present — at  least  for  the  present.    If  I  get  well '' 

"  Of  course  you  will  get  well.'' 

"  I  think  I  shall,  I  don't  feel  that  my  time  has  come ; 
there  is  still  work  for  me  to  do,  and  Marley.  .  .  ."  She 
paused  there,  the  tears  were  too  deep  to  rise  into  her  eyes, 
but  they  were  in  her  voice.  "  Not  my  son,  but  the  girl  he  loved 
will  inherit  Marley.  She  will  hold  it  in  his  memory;  she 
must  hear  nothing,  nothing  of  this  news  you  have  brought 
me." 

Andrew  wanted  to  know  what  surgeon  or  doctor  was 
coming  to  see  her,  what  arrangements  had  been  made.  Agatha 
did  not  want  to  talk  about  her  illness ;  she  made  light  of  it. 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  as  weil  as  ever  in  a  few  weeks.  But 
it  is  such  an  inconvenient  time."  She  would  only  admit  to 
inconvenience,  not  to  pain  or  danger. 

Andrew  was  very  doubtful  of  the  wisdom  of  the  course 
upon  which  they  were  to  embark ;  he  saw  possibilities  of  com- 
plication, of  blackmail,  knowing  that  if  Gabrielle  were  in 
truth  Desmond's  widow  it  was  not  right  she  should  be  bribed 
not  to  bear  his  name,  not  to  claim  her  rights.  But  Agatha 
was  ill,  and  obstinate.  She  reiterated  that  she  would  not 
have  the  girl's  mind  disturbed,  Andrew  yielded;  Agatha, 
weakened  like  this,  had  become  too  strong  for  him. 

"  Only  until  I  get  better — at  least  until  I  get  better  she 
is  not  to  use  Desmond's  name.  Everything  must  go  on  as 
before.    Eunice  is  to  know  nothing.    I  am  sure  I  am  right.'* 


FULL  SWING  195 

"  When  have  you  doubted  that  you  are  right  ?  "  he  asked. 
But  he  could  not  argue  with  her. 

"  I  am  sure  he  would  not  have  wished  her  to  know.  Let 
me  do  this  one  thing  for  him ;  let  me  keep  his  secret.^' 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can.  I  don't  think  there  will  be  any 
difficulty." 

The  conversation  had  to  be  adjourned.  Visitors  were  an- 
nounced. Neither  Agatha  nor  Andrew  was  sorry  that  their 
tete-d-tete  was  broken  in  upon. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

If  she  had  not  been  Agatha,  Andrew  would  have  said  that 
she  was  trying  to  do  a  wrong  thing,  that  the  woman  had  her 
rights,  that  it  was  not  only  Eunice  whose  feelings  should  be 
considered.  But  she  was  Agatha,  and  he  could  only  carry  out 
her  instructions.  He  told  Michael  of  her  decision  on  their 
journey  up  to  town  on  Monday  morning,  briefly  and 
abruptly,  but  in  a  way  that  showed  Michael  it  was  past  argu- 
ment, Michael  thought  the  idea  of  keeping  the  marriage  a 
secret,  concealing  the  whole  story  from  Eunice,  buying 
Gabrielle  off,  even  more  foolish  than  his  father  did,  and  more 
reprehensible.  He  did  not  think  it  fair  to  himself;  then 
flushed,  and  was  ashamed  that  he  should  be  thinking  of  him- 
self at  such  a  time.  For  he  heard  that  his  father's  old  friend 
and  client  had  an  operation  in  front  of  her,  that  the  issue  was 
uncertain. 

"  I  don't  think  at  the  moment  she  is  as  clear-minded  as 
usual.  She  does  not  see  the  possible  consequences  of  this 
concealment." 

Michael  could  see  how  moved  his  father  was,  and  refrained 
from  pressing  home  his  views.  But  his  father  would  have  to 
interview  Gabrielle  and  bribe  her  to  silence.  He,  Michael, 
admitted  himself  incapable  of  it. 

"  It  is  not  fair  to  any  of  us,"  he  was  driven  to  say. 

"  Agatha  is  our  client ;  we  have  to  carry  out  her  instruc- 
tions," Andrew  answered.     "  Poor  Agatha !  "  he  added. 

Andrew  was  distressed  at  the  prospect  of  Agatha's  peril. 
Michael  had  nothing  to  do  but  show  his  filial  affection,  help 
him  into  his  coat  when  the  train  stopped,  find  a  cab,  be 
assiduous  in  attention. 

Gabrielle  proved  herself  amenable,  more  amenable  than 
could  have  been  expected.  Andrew  went  to  her  in  the  after- 
noon, and  told  her  he  had  seen  Lady  Grindelay,  told  her  that 
Desmond's  mother  would  do  nothing  for  her  if  there  was  any 
publicity  or  any  announcement  of  the  marriage.     But  that 

196 


FULL  SWING  197 

if  she  would  live  quietly  and  call  herself  by  another  name,  she 
would  have  a  liberal  allowance,  a  sum  down — any  reasonable 
claim  would  be  met. 

"  It  is  true  that  you  are  entitled  to  Languedoc  when  Lord 
Grindelay's  death  is  proved,  but  not  before.  There  will  be 
delay;  there  is  bound  to  be  a  long  delay.  You  know  your 
resources — what  are  you  going  to  live  on  meanwhile?  When 
eventually  you  are  in  possession  of  Languedoc,  you  will  find 
it  is  an  expense,  not  an  income.  Your  pension,  too.  Des- 
mond's death  will  have  to  be  proved  before  it  is  paid,  the  body 
found,  or  an  eye-witness  who  saw  him  after  death.  And  it 
will  be  a  very  inconsiderable  amount,  scarcely  worth  claiming 
for  a  woman  like  yourself.  It  is  better  you  should  be  quite 
clear  about  your  position.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  confirm 
what  I  am  telling  you  with  your  own  lawyer  or  one  of  your 
friends  ?  " 

Whether  he  thought  her  wise  or  not,  he  fought  well  for 
his  client.  And  when  Gabrielle  gave  in,  when  she  began  to 
bargain,  he  knew  he  had  achieved  his  object.  Agatha  could 
go  through  her  ordeal  without  Eunice's  distress  to  deepen  it. 
Eunice  could  still  cherish  Desmond's  memory. 

Gabrielle  was  persuaded  to  move  from  her  present  quar- 
ters, where  she  was  known  as  Lady  Grindelay,  to  others 
where  she  was  unknown.  Andrew  McKay  made  no  stipulation 
as  to  where  she  was  to  go.  It  seemed  of  no  consequence.  Not 
the  liberal  allowance,  but  a  sum  down*  was  the  crux  of  her 
bargaining.  Fifteen  thousand  pounds,  she  asked ;  but  Andrew 
got  her  down  to  five  thousand  pounds.  She  spoke  of  debts, 
mysterious  debts  and  expenses.  Afterwards  he  wondered  at 
his  own  blindness,  that  his  suspicions  were  not  more  quickly 
aroused.  For  the  moment  he  was  only  concerned  to  know  that 
he  had  succeeded,  that  Agatha's  illness  or  convalescence 
would  not  be  troubled,  that  he  had  carried  out  her  wishes. 

Matters  were  very  expeditiously  arranged  when  once  the 
terms  were  agreed  upon.  Before  the  two  nurses  were  installed 
at  the  Court,  before  the  surgeons  had  made  their  appoint- 
ments and  the  news  of  what  was  to  be  done  had  been  broken 
to  Eunice,  Gabrielle  Eadlett  and  her  child  had  left  the  Buck- 


198  FULL  SWING 

ingham  Gate  flat.  If  Andrew  had  had  misgivings  before,  his 
last  interview  with  Gabrielle  did  nothing  to  remove  them. 

"  I  didn't  want  the  title,"  she  said.  "  It  is  no  use  to  me 
where  I  am  going.  I've  booked  to  South  Africa  as  Nurse  Rad- 
lett — my  old  name  is  good  enough  for  me.  I'm  off  next 
week.    I  was  only  waiting  for  the  cash." 

"To  South  Africa!" 

"  To  Cape  Town.  Why  not  ?  I'm  a  fully  qualified  nurse. 
Quite  a  number  of  us  are  going." 

"And  the  child?" 

They  were  in  the  office ;  the  flat  had  been  abandoned,  all 
her  preparations  made,  and  the  money  was  in  her  possession. 

"  Oh,  the  child !  "  She  laughed ;  she  had  the  impudence 
to  laugh.  "  I  wrote  to  Desmond's  old  nurse,  to  Biddy  Maione. 
It  was  Desmond's  idea  that  Biddy  should  take  care  of  his  child 
if  he  never  came  back.  I  wrote  and  told  her  so.  I  found 
someone  to  take  the  kid  over.  She  is  quite  safe  at  Langue- 
doc.  The  old  woman  was  glad  enough  to  get  her,  I  can  tell 
you.  It  seems  she  cherishes  some  old  grudge  against  Des- 
mond's mother.  She  seems  to  think  she  will  get  even  with 
her  by  keeping  Desmond's  child.  I'm  not  going  to  interfere, 
they  can  settle  it  between  themselves.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall 
come  back  for  a  year  or  two.  I  might  marry  again — there 
is  no  knowing."  Her  laugh  rang  out  again.  "  There  will  be 
plenty  of  chances.  There  is  nothing  about  marrying  again 
in  that  agreement  you  made  me  sign." 

She  had  outwitted  him,  kept  to  the  letter  of  her  agree- 
ment, regained  her  freedom,  and  with  more  money  and  greater 
independence  than  she  had  ever  had  in  her  life.  She  was  an 
adventuress,  and  this  adventure  had  brought  her  in  more  than 
she  had  anticipated.  She  had  no  love  for  Desmond,  for  the 
difficult  young  man  she  had  entrapped.  She  was  glad  to  be 
rid  of  him  and  his  child.    And  at  such  a  good  price. 

Lady  Grindelay  heard  nothing  of  what  had  occurred, 
nothing  of  what  had  become  of  the  adventuress  who  called 
herself  her  son's  wife,  nor  of  the  child  who  was  doubtfully  his. 
She  relied  upon  Andrew;  once  Andrew  had  undertaken  to 
carry  out  her  wishes  she  refused  to  give  the  matter  any  further 


FULL  SWING  199 

thought.  Agatha  was  now  in  the  hands  of  doctors  and  nurses. 
Andrew  could  not  break  in  upon  them  to  tell  her  of  his 
doubts  or  misgivings.  He  was  glad  of  the  respite,  not  proud 
of  the  way  he  had  conducted  the  negotiations.  There  was 
something  about  Gabrielle  Eadlett  when  he  saw  her  for  the 
last  time  in  his  office,  after  the  agreement  had  been  signed, 
that  excited  his  tardy  suspicion.  Now,  when  it  was  too  late, 
he  put  detectives  on  her  trail,  set  himself  and  them  the  task 
of  piecing  out  her  histor}',  discovering  everji;hing  that  should 
have  been  discovered  before  that  five  thousand  pounds  had 
been  thrown  away. 

Gabrielle  Eadlett  had  no  claim  to  call  herself  Lady  Grin- 
delay.  She  was  already  married  when  she  went  through  that 
ceremony  with  Desmond.  The  story  those  detectives  unrav- 
elled was  commonplace  enough;  it  lay  quite  on  the  surface. 
She  was  known  to  the  police,  known  at  Scotland  Yard.  Her 
husband  was  even  now  at  Dartmoor,  serving  his  time  for  an 
offence  for  which  they  had  been  tried  together,  of  which  she 
had  been  acquitted,  many  years  ago.  His  time  was  nearly  up. 
It  was  not  likely  he  would  have  enough  money  when  he  came 
out  to  follow  her  to  South  Africa.  She  had  no  fancy  for  a 
domestic  life  with  ex-convict  No.  3734. 

Andrew  learnt  all  this  from  Detective  Grose  of  Scotland 
Yard.  Everything  about  her  was  on  record;  he  need  only 
have  inquired  earlier  and  in  the  right  quarter. 

At  fourteen  she  was  sent  to  a  penitentiary  for  petty  pil- 
fering in  the  common  lodging-house  where  she  had  been 
employed  as  a  general  servant.  Yet  she  was  not  a  victim  of 
conditions,  but  of  character.  At  the  end  of  her  detention  a 
benevolent  old  lady  took  a  fancy  to  her,  and  paid  for  her 
education  and  training  as  a  hospital  nurse.  She  could  have 
retrieved  her  past ;  she  had  capacity,  even  talent.  But  before 
the  end  of  her  training  she  was  in  the  thick  of  an  intrigue 
with  one  of  the  young  hospital  doctors.  He  abandoned  her, 
and  to  conceal  her  condition  she  went  through  a  hasty  mar- 
riage with  a  sympathetic  and  plausible  scoundrel,  who  saw  in 
her  profession  a  means  he  could  use  in  his  own  more  nefarious 
one.     They  soon  began  to  understand  each  other.     The  sen- 


300  FULL  SWING 

tence  he  was  serving  was  for  forgery  and  attempted  blackmail. 
Gabrielle  had  nursed  the  man  whose  will  was  forged.  She 
had  been  one  of  the  witnesses,  but  at  the  trial  it  was  said  she 
was  acting  under  her  husband's  influence.  Her  youth  and 
good  looks  appealed  to  the  jury,  and,  as  has  been  seen,  she 
was  acquitted.  She  resumed  her  profession;  she  had  always 
her  attractive  manner  to  secure  the  suffrages  and  recommen- 
dations of  doctors.  Lord  Grindelay  was  not  the  only  patient 
who  had  had  to  rue  her  ministrations. 

This  was,  in  brief,  the  story  Inspector  Grose  had  to  tell. 
He  was  very  terse  and  direct.  The  only  detail  Andrew  wanted 
was  the  date  of  the  marriage,  and  the  proof  that  her  first 
husband  was  still  alive,  and  neither  was  difficult  to  obtain. 
Andrew  was  very  much  out  of  conceit  with  himself  for  having 
become  suspicious  so  late. 

"Who  could  dream  she  was  risking  a  prosecution  for 
bigamy  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  we  are  not  criminal  lawyers,"  Michael 
said  to  him  consolingly. 

"  I  feel  I  was  criminally  negligent  over  those  five  thousand 
pounds,"  Andrew  replied  ruefully.  "  Of  course,  she  was 
delighted  to  find  we  wanted  the  matter  hushed  up." 

Still,  there  were  compensations  for  his  over-haste  and 
lack  of  caution.  Desmond  was  not  married;  he  had  left  no 
heir.  There  was  no  one  who  was  entitled  to  call  herself 
"Lady  Grindelay"  or  disturb  Eunice's  mind.  He  knew 
Agatha  would  think  five  thousand  pounds  not  too  much  to 
pay  for  the  knowledge. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  see  Agatha,  but 
he  wrote  her  a  brief  letter  that  everything  had  been  done  as 
she  wished,  and  that  the  marriage  of  which  she  had  been 
informed  had  not  proved  a  legal  one.  "There  will  be  no 
further  trouble  from  that  quarter,"  he  added,  knowing  no 
better. 

Before  Andrew's  letter  reached  Marley,  however,  gi'eat 
news  came  to  hand,  news  that  made  its  contents  comparatively 
unimportant,  although  later  the  importance  became  more 
significant.    But  that  was  not  yet. 


FULL  SWING  201 

Michael  came  late  to  the  office  the  very  day  the  letter  was 
dispatched,  with  a  pale  and  agitated  face. 

"Have  you  heard  what  they  are  crying  in  the  streets? 
Roberts  has  marched  into  Pretoria,  finding  and  releasing  a 
large  number  of  prisoners  who  had  long  been  given  up  as 

dead.    There  are  names  amongst  them "    Their  eyes  met, 

his  father  caught  his  excitement,  answering  it. 

"  Kot  Desmond's  ?    Not  Lord  Grindela/s  ?  " 

"  They  say  so.  '  No  Surrender  Grindelay  amongst  the 
prisoners'  is  on  all  the  placards.  I  am  just  going  round  to  the 
War  Office.    I  only  called  in  to  tell  you." 

"  Good  God !    Good  God !    If  it  should  be  true !  " 

"  I  think  it  must  be  true.  Here's  the  paper.  It  is  circum- 
stantial enough.  I  can  be  down  at  Marley  before  the  even- 
ing papers  get  there.  You  don't  mind  if  I  don't  come  back 
here?" 

"  You  won't  be  able  to  see  Agatha." 

"  I  can  see  Eunice.     I  should  like  to  tell  her  myself.     I 

was  so  often  the  bearer  of  bad  tidings "    He  halted  in  his 

speech,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  what  he  had  suffered  in  carry- 
ing it.  "  I  should  like  to  tell  her  this  myself,"  he  said.  "  Do 
you  mind  if  I  go  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not."  His  father  understood,  showed  his 
sympathy  by  his  silence.  "  You  can  call  at  the  War  Office, 
and  still  be  in  time  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  train.  Perhaps 
you'll  be  able  to  let  me  know  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  too  late  to  come  back  if  I  am  to  catch  the  five 
o'clock." 

"Be  careful  what  you  telegraph.  You  know  what  they 
have  been  going  through." 

"  They  are  sure  to  have  arranged  that  no  telegrams  are 
taken  up  to  the  sick  room.  I  shall  simply  wire  for  the 
brougham  to  meet  me." 

"They'll  guess.  The  girl  never  believed  he  was  dead. 
Agatha  told  me  so." 

"  I  know,"  Michael  added  simply.  "  She  told  me  so  her- 
self." 

Neither  of  them  spoke  of  Desmond's  wife,  who  was  no  wife. 


203  FULL  SWING 

The  lesser  news  was  swallowed  up  by  the  greater.    Desmond 
was  alive. 

The  War  Office  confirmed  the  news  that  was  in  the  papers. 
Prisoners  of  war  had  been  released  by  Roberts  in  Pretoria, 
and  Lord  Grindelay  was  amongst  them.  There  were  no 
details  to  hand  as  yet,  only  the  bare  fact. 

Michael  caught  the  five  o'clock  train.  He  would  be  in 
Marley  before  the  news.  His  telegram  was  a  little  more  ex- 
plicit than  his  father  had  advised,  and  it  was  sent  to  Eunice. 

"  Arriving  six-fifty,  bringing  news." 

He  wanted  to  see  her  at  the  station  when  he  got  to  the 
end  of  his  journey ;  he  wanted  to  see  her  face  brighten  when 
he  told  her,  although  the  brightening  would  not  be  for  him. 
He  had  suffered  in  seeing  her  suffer,  in  his  helplessness  to 
help  her.  If  he  had  thought  of  what  she  might  say  or  do 
should  she  ever  hear  of  Gabrielle  Eadlett,  he  put  it  on  one 
side  now.  She  might  never  hear  of  that,  she  would  never 
hear  of  it  from  him.    He  was  the  bearer  of  good  news. 

Eunice  had  been  through  a  strenuous  time,  months  of 
anxiety  and  the  crushing  sorrow  from  which  she  had  emerged, 
to  hope  still.  Then  the  shock  of  Agatha's  illness ;  the  anxious 
hours  when  the  surgeons  were  with  her,  days  and  nights  of 
nursing. 

At  the  station  Michael  told  her  nothing  and  she  was 
afraid  to  question  him.  Now  in  the  darkness  of  the  evening 
they  were  in  the  brougham;  the  two  lamps  cast  their  light 
only  on  the  road,  and  she  heard  the  regular  trot  of  the  horses' 
feet. 

"  Desmond  is  alive,"  Michael  said  then,  briefly,  curtly. 
"  You  were  quite  right.  Eoberts  found  him  in  Pretoria, 
among  the  wounded." 

"  Desmond  is  alive !  "  When  Michael  said  that,  her  heart 
gave  a  great  bound,  then  was  in  her  throat,  impeding  words : 
"  Desmond  is  alive !  " 

The  carriage  rolled  on.  She  could  not  speak;  she  knew 
she  must  thank  Michael  for  coming  to  tell  her.  She  put  out 
her  hand  for  his,  and  he  held  it.  Then,  after  a  minute,  she 
burst  out  crying.    He  had  not  thought  she  would  take  it  like 


FULL  SWING  203 

this.  His  arm  went  round  lier,  his  awkward,  unaccustomed 
arm.  Now  she  was  crying  on  his  shoulder,  saying :  "  Oh, 
Michael !  "  and  "  Is  it  really  true?  "  "  Oh,  Michael !  I  am 
not  crying;  only  so  glad  and — and  grateful."  "  Oh,  Michael ! 
I  thought  it  must  happen.  I've  only  been  half  alive  without 
Desmond,  I  knew  he  couldn't  be  dead." 

Michael,  with  his  arm  about  her,  set  his  teeth  and  bore  it. 
He  had  come  down  to  tell  her,  wanting  to  see  the  grief  vanish 
from  her  face,  to  see  it  bloom  again  in  smiles  and  happiness, 
to  hear  her  say  "  Oh,  Michael !  "  and  thank  him  for  bringing 
the  news.  He  had  not  thought  of  what  would  happen  then, 
or  afterwards;  only  that  he  would  take  her  the  good  news. 
Now  she  was  crying  on  his  shoulder,  and  for  the  first  time 
his  arms  were  round  her.  Perhaps  he  had  not  known  how 
much  he  loved  her  until  he  held  her  in  his  arms.  There  was 
a  moment  in  which  he  wished  the  marriage  had  been  legal, 
a  moment  in  which  he  wanted  her  to  know  that  Desmond  had 
not  been  true  to  her,  a  savage,  unworthy  moment,  succeeded 
by  a  great  and  overwhelming  tenderness. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  about  it.  You  must  not  cry," 
he  said  stiffly. 

"  I'm  not  crying ;  only  it's  so  wonderful !  " 

"You  never  believed  he  was  dead." 

"  Not  in  my  dreams,  nor  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  But 
sometimes — often — I  thought  it  true.  I  could  never  bear 
it  when  I  thought  it  was  true ;  I  used  to  feel  sick  and  faint.  I 
wouldn't  believe  it." 

"  You  care  for  him  so-much  ?  " 

"It's  always  been  Desmond  and  me — me  and  Desmond 
— ever  'since  we  were  children — always." 

She  recovered  herself  very  soon,  left  off  crying,  sat  up. 
She  forgot  Michael's  arms  had 'been  round  her,  that  she  had 
sobbed  on  his  shoulder.  She  forgot  Michael  McKay  loved 
her,  and  had  told  her  so.  Michael  never  forgot,  but  Eunice 
did.  He  wore  an  eyeglass,  "used  legal  phrases.  It  seemed  of 
little  consequence  at  any  ftime  that  he  loved  her,  of  none  now 
that  Desmond  was  alive.     She  began  to  talk  to  him  soon  of 


304  FULL  SWING 

what  her  aunt  would  say,  of  how  long  it  would  be  before  the 
doctors  would  let  her  be  told.  Michael  used  the  jejune 
phrase,  he  said : 

"  Joy  does  not  kill." 

Perhaps  he  had  had  a  wild  idea  that  theirs  was  only 
cousinly  love,  that  it  had  weakened  in  Desmond's  absence.  She 
had  been  very  kind  to  him,  sweet  and  gentle,  in  London,  and 
ever  since  Desmond  went  away.  He  may  have  had  hope ;  hope 
is  so  hard  to  kill.  But  when  he  dined  with  her  that  night, 
seeing  her  radiant  face,  he  had  again  no  hope  except  that 
Desmond  should  prove  worthy  of  her,  tliat  her  happiness 
might  be  completed.  For  all  his  staidness,  there  was  a  wild 
pain  at  his  heart.  He  stifled  it  by  reiterating  to  himself  that 
all  he  wanted  was  her  happiness. 

'^  He  will  come  home  now  ?  After  being  wounded  and 
imprisoned,  and  wounded  again,  they  will  be  sure  to  send  him 
home.  How  proud  we  shall  be  of  him !  '  No  Surrender  Grin- 
delay  ! '    That's  what  the  men  called  him,  you  told  me  that." 

He  had  tried  to  comfort  her  with  it  when  first  they  heard 
Desmond  was  missing,  when  he  and  everybody  but  the  girl 
who  loved  him  thought  that  Desmond  was  dead. 

"  He  might  be  on  his  way  home  now." 

She  was  almost  awed  with  the  greatness  of  that  possibility. 
In  the  face  she  turned  to  him  for  confirmation  he  saw,  by 
the  heightened  colour  and  the  shining  eyes,  her  new  glad  out- 
look on  the  world.  It  was  all  for  Desmond.  He  tried  to  meet 
her  spirit,  but  as  the  dinner  went  on,  when  all  the  household 
had  been  told  and  were  rejoicing  with  her — the  old  butler 
with  his  filled  eyes,  the  young  footman  who  had  permission 
to  go  down  and  tell  the  village — Michael  played  his  part  so 
indifferently  well  that  when  he  went  away,  for  he  would  not 
stay  the  night  although  she  pressed  him,  she  found  her  great 
joy  a  little  dimmed,  found  herself  a  little  sorry  for  him, 
vaguely,  and  with  that  comforting  sense  that  he  never  could 
have  really  hoped  for  anything  different.  It  had  always  been 
she  and  Desmond — just  she  and  Desmond. 

Perhaps  she  thought  him  a  little  unfair,  a  little  ungener- 


FULL  SWING  205 

ous,  to  let  her  be  sorry  for  him  to-night,  to  cloud  her  wonder- 
ful happiness.  Yet  such  a  lover  had  he  become,  this  prig  of  a 
Michael,  with  his  gold-rimmed  eyeglass,  in  his  stiffness  and 
want  of  humour,  that  before  he  got  back  to  town  he  had  for- 
gotten himself  again;  he  was  only  thinking  she  must  never 
hear  now  of  Gabrielle  Eadlett,  that  they  must  shield  her — 
he  and  his  father  and  Lady  Grindelay,  He  dared  not  think 
how  she  would  feel  if  she  knew  that  there  was  another  woman 
who  had  a  claim  upon  Desmond — a  child ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  doctors  would  not  allow  Lady  Grindelay  to  be  told  for  a 
day  or  two;  but  they,  too,  agreed  that  joy  did  not  kill.  Eunice 
was  instructed  to  break  it  gently,  to  speak  of  hope,  not  cer- 
tainty. 

But  Eunice's  face  broke  the  news  before  she  did.  She 
could  not  constrain  her  face,  and  Lady  Grindelay's  intelli- 
gence had  not  yet  suffered  in  her  illness. 

"  You  look  very  gay  this  morning,"  she  said  to  the  girl. 

"  That  is  because  you  are  getting  well,"  Eunice  answered 
quickly. 

"  Turn  your  face  to  the  light."  She  lay  still  for  a  few 
minutes,  her  eyes  on  the  girl's  face.  Eunice  turned  away  from 
the  scrutiny,  but  there  was  a  warm,  wild  rose  flush  in  her 
cheek,  and  a  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  If  it  were  not  so  impossible  .  .  ."  Lady  Grindelay  began. 

"  Oh,  auntie,  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  "  she  said 
agitatedly.  And  then  added  absurdly:  "They  said  I  must 
not  tell  you." 

"  It  is  true,  then — the  impossible  is  true  ?  "  The  invalid's 
face  flushed,  her  breath  came  quickly. 

"You've  guessed?" 

"Your  face  is  illuminated,  what  else  could  light  it  so? 
My  son  was  dead  and  is  alive !    My  son  !  " 

The  red  flushed  her  old  cheeks,  the  pulses  beat  danger- 
ously. 

Nurse  came  running  with  smelling  bottle  and  brandy, 
speaking  in  the  manner  of  her  kind  to  Eunice,  for  all  her 
sympathy,  and  though  her  uniformed  heart  went  out  to  them 
both: 

"  You  oughtn't  to  have  told  her  like  that.  I'm  surprised 
at  your  knowing  no  better  than  to  tell  her  before  she  was  up 
or  had  anything  done  to  her." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it ;  she  guessed,"  sobbed  Eunice.  There 
were  tears  in  the  nurse's  eyes  for  all  her  indignation. 

206 


FULL  SWING  207 

"Upsetting  you  like  this,  and  before  you've  had  your 
breakfast.'*  She  was  inconsistent,  it  is  difficult  even  for  a 
hospital  nurse  to  be  consistent  on  such  an  occasion,  "  I  knovc, 
milady ;  we  all  heard  it  last  night,  and  there  was  great  rejoic- 
ing in  the  household.    Miss  Eunice  sent  word  up  and  down." 

"Take  it  away,  I  don't  want  brandy  or  smelling  salts 
because  my  son — is  alive."  The  last  words  were  faint, 
whispered. 

She  had  to  take  the  stimulant,  her  heart  nearly  failed. 
As  always,  she  overrated  her  strength.  But  it  was  because  the 
memory  of  Gabrielle  Radlett  came  to  her  suddenly,  weaken- 
ing her,  that  she  lay  back,  pale,  with  her  heart  failing.  It  was 
only  physical  weakness ;  her  will  was  as  strong  as  ever.  Even 
before  she  read  Andrew's  letter  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
Eunice  must  not  be  told — not  now,  certainly.  Something 
must  be  contrived.  Of  course,  after  she  read  Andrew's  letter, 
which  she  was  able  to  do  in  another  hour  or  two,  she  knew 
there  was  no  "  not  yet "  about  it.  Eunice  need  never  know, 
must  never  know,  unless  perhaps  some  day,  in  the  intimacy 
of  married  life,  Desmond  himself  might  tell  her. 

"  The  intimacy  of  married  life  !  " 

Agatha  lay  and  thought  about  that  in  the  weary  hours  of 
her  convalescence.    "  The  intimacy  of  married  life" 

Memories  intruded  upon  her,  flushing  her  thin  old  cheeks. 
She  thought  that  if  Lord  Grindelay  had  told  her  nothing, 
had  kept  his  secrets,  she  would  have  suffered  less.  But  Des- 
mond was  different,  he  had  only  this  one  secret.  The  girl 
must  never  turn  from  and  resent  him.  His  mother  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  it;  the  secret  must  be  kept. 

And  then  she  lay  and  built  her  air  castles.  They  would 
live  here  at  Marley ;  she  would  see  him  every  day.  He  would 
be  grateful  to  her  for  having  kept  his  secret,  for  everything 
she  was  going  to  do  for  them.  He  would  forgive  her  for  not 
being  demonstrative,  come  to  some  understanding  of  her  love 
for  him;  she  was  an  old  woman  now,  and  could  not  change 
her  ways.  There  would  be  nothing  of  his  father  left  in  him 
after  the  purification  of  the  war.  He  would  be  all  Wanstead. 
So  many  of  them  had  served  their  countr}^    Then  she  thought 


208  FULL  SWING 

she  would  ask  him  to  give  up  his  tarnished  title,  and  call 
himself  Wanstead.  She  would  give  him  so  much,  surely  she 
might  ask  that. 

She  regained  strength  slowly,  spending  the  next  few  weeks 
listening  whilst  Eunice  chattered  about  Desmond,  adding 
her  own  voice  sometimes,  arranging  what  was  to  happen  when 
Desmond  came  home.  There  was  much  to  be  thought  of  now 
that  Desmond  was  coming  home.  Lady  Grindelay  had  neg- 
lected Marley  a  little  of  late.  There  were  more  new  cottages 
needed.     Desmond  must  superintend  the  new  cottages. 

"  He  will  find  plenty  to  interest  him." 

Eunice  never  doubted  it. 

Andrew  came  down  to  see  her  as  soon  as  he  was  allowed. 
Michael  would  not  accompany  him;  he  could  not  trust  him- 
self with  Eunice  again  just  yet.  Andrew  went  up  to  Agatha's 
bedroom,  the  big  room  with  the  great  bow-window  looking 
over  the  gardens  to  the  green  woods,  the  room  with  its  four- 
poster  bedstead  and  antiquated  walnut  furniture.  It  moved 
Andrew  to  see  Agatha  on  the  sofa,  so  unlike  herself  in  her 
lace  cap  and  wrapper.    But  he  controlled  himself  well. 

"  I  didn't  die,  you  see,"  she  began. 

"  The  world  would  have  been  an  empty  place  for  me  if 
you  had."     His  voice  was  husky. 

He  held  her  hand  a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary, 
and  it  seemed  to  rest  in  his. 

"  I've  given  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble  one  way  and 
another,"  she  said. 

"  I've  never  grudged  any  trouble  I  took  for  you." 

"  I  know." 

Then  there  was  another  moment  in  which  neither  of  them 
spoke.  There  was  much  to  say,  some  of  it  that  would  never 
be  spoken. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  only  of  her  son  she  was  thinking  in 
that  moment  of  silence.  But  when  Andrew  relinquished  her 
hand  and  sat  down  beside  her,  when  they  were  both  them- 
selves again,  she  spoke  of  Desmond. 

"It  seems  incredible  even  now.    I  am  glad  I  got  better. 


FULL  SWING  209 

I  have  not  been  a  very  good  mother  to  him,  Andrew.     But 
there  is  time  still.  .  ,  ." 

"  No  woman  is  fit  to  bring  up  a  boy.  She  can't  make 
him,  and  she  may  mar  him." 

"  I  sent  him  out  to  the  war." 

"  You've  been  eating  your  heart  out  ever  since.  I've  little 
doubt  it  was  that  brought  on  your  illness." 

"  Perhaps." 

*'  Now  he'll  be  coming  home,  thinking  of  his  cousin  again. 
Have  you  told  her  about  the  woman  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  She  will  have  to  know  some  time ;  better  get  it  over." 

"  Andrew,  I've  been  thinking " 

"  A  thing  no  woman  should  be  allowed  to  do.  She  always 
thinks  wrong,  generally  illogically." 

He  wanted  to  rouse  her  to  argument,  he  could  hardly  bear 
to  see  her  lying  like  this. 

"  Sometimes  I  wish  I  had  been  more  like  other  women," 
she  said,  a  little  sadly. 

He  put  his  hand  on  hers  again. 

"  I  shouldn't  wish  that,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were  you.  I  like 
to  think  of  you  as  you  are." 

"  Andrew,"  she  said  again,  after  a  pause.  "  Nobody  need 
ever  know  of  this — this  abortive  marriage." 

"  Not  if  you  don't  wish  it,  not  if  you  think  it  best." 

"I  don't  want  Eunice  to  be  told.  I  will  explain  why — 
I  will  try  and  explain  why.  But  first  tell  me  all  you  found 
out — everything  there  is  to  know." 

He  told  her  a  great  deal,  not  everything,  but  a  great  deal. 
They  were  early  days,  and  she  was  still  weak.  He  gave  her 
an  outline  of  Gabrielle  Eadlett's  history.  But  he  did  not 
tell  her  then  that  Gabrielle  had  gone  out  to  South  Africa  to 
nurse  the  wounded  or  amuse  herself.  And  he  did  not  tell 
her,  not  then,  that  she  had  sent  Desmond's  child — if  the  child 
were  Desmond's — to  Languedoc.  He  thought  he  should  be 
able  to  get  it  away  from  there  before  Desmond  came  home. 
They  would,  of  course,  provide  for  it  suitably;  some  good 
woman  could  be  found  to  rear  it.  When  Agatha  was  quite 
14 


210  FULL  SWING 

herself  again  it  would  be  time  to  remind  her  that  they  had 
not  quite  done  with  Gabrielle  Radlett  or  the  consequence  of 
Desmond's  folly. 

Now  he  agreed  with  Agatha  that  the  whole  thing  should  be 
hushed  up.  Desmond  was  not  the  first  young  man  to  fall 
into  such  a  trap.  The  trap  had  opened;  he  had  escaped. 
There  was  no  need  to  take  the  world  into  their  confidence,  to 
show  how  ingenuous  the  boy  had  been  and  easily  netted.  The 
lawyer  thought  that  nobody  need  be  told  but  Eunice.  But 
Agatha  said  that  Eunice  should  be  the  last  person  who  must 
hear. 

Eunice  came  in  whilst  Andrew  and  Agatha  were  talking. 
He  saw  how  her  beauty  had  bloomed,  and  although  he  wanted 
her  for  Michael,  he  knew  how  suitable  would  be  a  marriage 
between  her  and  her  cousin.  They  would  hold  Marley  in  com- 
mon, there  was  Wanstead  blood  in  both  of  them ;  the  old  place 
would  stay  in  the  old  family.  As  for  Michael,  Michael  must 
get  over  it.  But  when  he  said  that,  he  felt  doubtful  and  sad- 
dened. Had  he  ever  fogotten,  although  he  had  taken  a  wife 
to  himself?  Was  there  anything  in  his  life  as  strong  as  his 
feeling  for  the  mistress  of  Marley?  He  knew  there  was  not. 
Michael  himself  would  not  stand  between  him  and  any  service 
he  could  render  her. 

The  weeks  passed.  Lady  Grindelay  rid  herself  of  the 
nurses,  went  about  the  house  again  and  into  the  garden, 
wrapped  in  her  shawl ;  went  again  to  the  village,  to  the  school 
and  the  model  laundry,  resuming  her  old  place. 

She  had  been  missed.  Everyone  learned  her  value  whilst 
she  was  away  from  them,  lying  up  at  the  big  house  between 
life  and  death.  If  her  words  had  been  few,  her  hand  had 
been  open.  They  welcomed  her  back  warmly,  and  she  was 
touched  by  their  welcome.  Now  she  had  a  new  understand- 
ing of  childhood's  magnified  small  troubles,  every  child  was 
some  woman's  son  or  daughter,  the  tragedy  of  motherhood 
hung  over  everything. 

Little  Marley  was  proud  of  "  No  Surrender  Grindelay," 
and  Great  Marley  was  proud  of  him  and  the  many  men  they 
had  sent  to  the  war.     There  would  be  a  great  reception  for 


FULL  SWING  211 

them  when  they  came  home.  Already  it  was  being  planned. 
Sir  John  Campden  came  from  his  own  desolate  home  to 
tell  her  how  glad  they  were  that  she,  too,  was  not  bereaved. 
He  had  lost  both  his  sons,  but  to  Agatha  he  only  spoke  of 
Desmond's  bravery. 

"  He  was  always  a  fine  lad.  Cedrie  and  Jeff  were  devoted 
to  him,  my  poor  wife  too.  When  he  comes  back  he  must  come 
to  us  sometimes,  though  the  house  is  dull  now — empty." 

His  voice  faltered,  but  he  had  not  come  to  Agatha  to 
speak  of  his  own  troubles.  He  had  come  to  tell  her  he  re- 
joiced in  her  joy,  that  the  whole  county  rejoiced  with  her, 
was  proud  with  her.  Perhaps  he  remembered  he  had  wanted 
Agatha  at  Denham,  that  she  might  have  been  the  mother 
of  those  dead  boys  of  his.  But  he  was  glad  that  her  own  son 
was  alive,  truly  glad. 

Eunice's  heart  swelled  when  men,  and  women  too,  talked 
of  Desmond.  She  went  with  Lady  Grindelay  everywhere, 
attending  on  her,  solicitous  for  her,  but  listening  always,  alert 
to  the  last  word. 

" '  No  Surrender  Grindelay ! '  *  Surrender  be  damned ! ' 
he  said  to  them  Boers,  good  luck  to  him !  " 

"  *  Come  on ! '  sez  he.  It's  an  Englishman  I  am,  a  Marley 
man.    Surrender  be  damned  !  " 

Such  phrases  were  repeated  again  and  again,  with  com- 
ments and  local  pride.  Eunice  was  never  tired  of  hearing 
them;  always  her  heart  swelled,  often  her  eyes  filled.  But 
she  had  long  known  that  Desmond  was  brave,  that  he  would 
be  a  hero.  It  was  not  so  new  to  her  to  be  proud  of  Desmond 
as  it  was  to  the  others. 

From  South  Africa  the  news  came  slowly;  there  was  an 
accumulation,  and  it  filtered  through  in  driblets.  Lord 
Eoberts  had  marched  into  Pretoria  with  flying  colours,  had 
released  the  prisoners.  The  war  was  over,  so  it  was  supposed. 
We  know  now  that  it  was  nothing  like  over,  that  De  Wet  had 
to  be  reckoned  with,  and  his  picked  band  of  sharpshooters; 
that  if  the  war  were  over  the  country  was  still  in  arms.  These 
were  the  days  immediately  before  the  block-houses  and  the 
two  years'  guerilla  warfare.    It  was  only  the  first  part  of  the 


212  FULL  SWING 

campaign  that  was  over ;  we  had  still  to  conquer  the  so-of ten- 
conquered  country;  two  more  long  blood-stained  years  had 
yet  to  pass. 

A  cable  was  sent  to  Desmond  as  soon  as  communication 
could  be  established,  telling  him  of  his  mother's  illness,  asking 
him  to  return  as  soon  as  possible.  The  reply  was  from  head- 
quarters. Lord  Grindelay  was  ill,  not  recovered  from  his 
wounds,  had  fever,  was  in  hospital,  unable  to  travel. 

Before  they  had  time  to  be  alarmed  his  own  letter  came. 
In  the  sun  of  the  sunken  garden,  where  the  roses  filled 
the  air  with  sweetness,  throwing  out  largesses  of  scent,  and 
the  bees  came  droning  for  honey,  Agatha  and  the  girl  read 
it  together.  To  them  it  seemed  as  if  now  it  would  always 
be  summer: 

"  Deae  Mother, — The  post  is  just  going.  I  hear  we 
were  all  reported  dead.  I'm  sending  you  a  line  to  tell  you 
I'm  all  right.  I've  had  some  fever,  been  pretty  bad.  I 
hope  you  have  not  been  anxious  about  me.  I  can't  help 
thinking  it  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  not  pulled 
through.  I  dare  say  by  this  time  you  know  why  I 
think  so." 

The  letter  was  blurred  and  ill-written,  ending  abruptly. 
The  intelligent  orderly  who  sent  it  had,  however,  added 
a  line  or  two  on  his  own  account : 

"  Hoping  you  won't  think  it  a  liberty,  I  let  you  know 
your  son  has  had  a  bad  bout  of  fever  as  well  as  his  wounds, 
and  can't  use  his  arm  very  well,  and  is  down  on  his  luck. 
But  he  will  come  all  right,  as  his  constitution  is  sound, 
and  we  shall  cheer  him  up,  for  we  are  proud  of  him,  and 
hope  to  serve  under  him  again." 

***** 

Over  the  grass  and  into  the  rose  garden  came  Andrew  and 
Michael  McKay,  two  black-coated  town  figures,  never  more 
eagerly  welcomed. 

"  He  is  ill,  Andrew." 

"  Michael,  Desmond  has  written,  but  he  is  ill." 


FULL  SWING  313 

They  both  spoke  at  once,  and  Lady  Grindelay  held  out  the 
letter.  But  the  men  had  come  down  that  afternoon,  fully 
informed,  and  with  a  proposition  that  they  opened  almost 
as  soon  as  they  came  in  sight. 

"  I'm  going  out  to  him." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Michael  fetching  him?  " 

Eunice  was  immediately  all  excited  question  and  answer. 
But  Andrew  went  on  speaking  to  Agatha,  and  let  Michael 
attend  to  her. 

"  We  hear  he  is  ill  and  unable  to  travel.  It  is  Michael's 
idea  to  go  out  and  bring  him  back.  If  you  agree  he  can 
catch  Saturday's  boat.  The  long  vacation  is  coming  on,  I 
can  spare  him  easily,"  he  added. 

"  Another  sacrifice  you  are  making  for  me !  "  Agatha  said. 

"  Not  at  all ;  it  is  no  sacrifice.  He  wants  to  go ;  the 
change  will  do  him  good." 

Michael  and  Eunice  were  talking  together,  apart  from  the 
others. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  in  every  way  that  Michael  should  go 
out;  there  are  things  one  cannot  write." 

Andrew  began  to  explain  himself  more  fully,  but  Agatha 
caught  his  meaning  quickly. 

"That  woman?" 

"  She  is  out  there — nursing." 

"Not  in  Pretoria?" 

"No;  not  in  Pretoria,  so  far  as  we  know.  The  nurses 
go  to  Cape  Town  in  the  first  instance,  then  they  are  drafted 
to  Pretoria  or  one  or  the  other  of  the  field  hospitals.  We've 
been  making  inquiries,  and  that  is  what  we've  ascertained. 
We  don't  want  to  take  any  risks." 

"  You  think  she  ma}'  seek  him  out  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  unlikely.  Michael  would  stand  between  her 
and  any  fresh  influence  she  sought  to  establish." 

"  If  I  were  stronger,  surer  of  myself " 

"  Of  course,  if  you  had  not  been  ill,  you  would  have  been 
there  before  now.  Numbers  have  gone,  some  to  help,  many 
to  be  in  the  way,  some  because  all  the  best  of  our  young  men. 
are  there ^" 


214  FULL  SWING 

"  That  was  probably  her  motive,"  she  interrupted. 
"  Possibly.  As  I  said,  we  don't  want  to  take  any  risks. 
He  will  hear  all  we  have  learned;  of  your  illness  too,  and 
your  desire  that  he  should  return  as  quickly  as  possible.  He 
may  not  be  well  enough  to  travel  alone.  Michael  is  very 
able — gentle,  too."  He  urged  his  point,  but  it  needed  little 
urging. 

"  It  is  hard  on  Michael,"  she  suggested  doubtfully. 
Now   they   remembered   their  talks   about   Michael   and 
Eunice. 

"  We  are  not  doomed  to  be  successful  in  our  love  affairs, 
Michael  and  I."  He  spoke  with  a  wry  smile.  "  But  we  are 
happy  in  serving." 

"  You  have  a  genius  for  friendship,  both  of  you,"  she  an- 
swered, with  emotion. 

It  was  decided  that  Michael  should  go  on  Saturday.  All 
the  evening  they  calculated  times  and  distances.  They  agreed 
that  they  ought  to  be  back,  Michael  and  the  invalid,  in  seven 
weeks.  Eunice  and  Michael  said  seven,  though  the  elders 
were  a  little  doubtful.  In  any  ca^e  Michael  would  be  lavish 
in  cables,  letting  Desmond  know  at  once  that  he  was  on  the 
way  to  him. 

"  He  might  come  as  far  as  Cape  Town  to  meet  you ;  that 
would  save  three  or  four  days,"  Eunice  said  hopefully. 

Details  were  happily  discussed,  many  messages  entrusted ; 
one  that  was  never  put  into  words. 

"  Tell  him,  tell  him — he  is  to  come  back  quickly." 
That  was  all  Eunice's  special  instructions,  given  with  glow- 
ing eyes  and  flushing  cheeks. 

"  I  understand,"  Michael  answered  in  a  low  voice,  adding, 
"  He  shall  understand." 

He  covered  up  his  own  hurt.  It  was  true,  as  Lady  Grin- 
delay  had  said  to  his  father,  they  had  a  genius  for  friendship. 
What  more  can  a  man  ask  than  to  bring  happiness  to  the  girl 
he  loves,  be  able  to  help  her?  Since  it  was  Desmond  she 
needed  for  her  happiness,  he  would  bring  Desmond  to  her, 
tell  him  of  his  freedom,  make  the  way  easy  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Desmond  was  not  amongst  the  first  batch,  of  prisoners  whom 
Lord  Egberts,  marching  into  Pretoria  with  colours  flying 
after  all  those  desperate  daj^s  of  disaster  and  death,  had  found 
and  released.  Neither  was  he  with  those  who,  indifferently 
well  cared  for,  lay  under  the  shadow  of  the  church  where 
Kruger  had  officiated  week  by  week,  preaching  his  distorted 
patriotism  and  the  gospel  of  peace  that  had  bespattered  two 
continents  with  blood.  It  was  at  Waterval  young  Lord  Grin- 
delay  was  discovered.  The  Boers,  retreating  in  disorder  be- 
fore our  advancing  army,  had  these  last  prisoners  with  them, 
prisoners  held,  perhaps,  for  ransom  or  reprisal,  many  of 
them  dead  or  dying  of  fever  or  gangrened  wounds,  faint  with 
famine  or  parched  with  thirst.  They  had  sad  stories  to  tell  of 
outrage  and  insult,  neglect  or  ill-treatment. 

But  Desmond  had  no  story  to  tell ;  he  was  long  past  talk, 
unrecognisable  for  many  da5'S,  until,  in  the  quickly  impro- 
vised field  hospital,  one  of  his  own  men  saw  him,  called  others 
to  confirm,  and  finally  spread  the  incredible  news.  He  came 
very  slowly  to  the  knowledge  of  his  rescue.  One  arm  had  been 
shattered  by  rifle  shot;  he  had  more  wounds  than,  according 
to  the  doctors,  could  be  shown  by  any  other  living  tribute  to 
the  accuracy  of  Boer  marksmanship.  He  had  lain  for  many 
days  in  the  bosom  of  King  Death,  looking  into  his  cold  eyes, 
feeling  his  hypnotic  breath,  without  the  strength  to  struggle, 
or  perhaps  the  desire.  He  was  so  weak  he  wished  that  Death 
would  clasp  him  closer.  But  the  doctors  wrested  him  away 
against  his  will.  Out  of  reach  of  that  hypnotic  breath  he 
became  only  conscious  of  pain,  physical  and  mental  pain,  of 
hopelessness.  His  fever  had  been  haunted  by  the  swaying  of 
boughs,  visions  of  moss-clad  roots  of  trees  in  the  cool  woods 
of  Marley,  by  mirage  of  the  gleaming  river  in  green  leafy 
distances.  When  his  intervals  of  consciousness  came  now, 
there  were  no  green  woods,  but  canvas  walls,  the  dry  dust  of 
the  sun-baked  veldt  blowing  through  the  flapping  door,  and 

215 


216  FULL  SWING 

near  him,  so  uear  that  he  could  have  touched  her,  Gabrielle — 
Gabrielle  Eadlett ! — she  who  stood  for  ever  between  him  and 
the  woods.  It  seemed  impossible  that  she  should  be  here, 
incredible. 

It  was  not  delirium,  not  another  fevered  dream,  and  pres- 
ently he  understood  she  was  speaking  to  him. 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  see  me  here,  did  you  ?  Can't  you 
make  an  effort — pull  yourself  together  ?  " 

"  You  have  come  out  to  nurse  me  ?  "  he  said  faintly. 

She  laughed ;  he  hated  that  light  laugh,  and  shut  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  flatter  yourself  it  was  only  for  you  I  came. 
You  were  supposed  to  be  dead,  you  know." 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said  feebly.  He  wished  she 
would  go  away. 

"  There's  nothing  to  understand.  I'm  not  here  as  Lady 
Grindelay;  I  am  here  as  Nurse  Eadlett.  You  mustn't  give 
me  away." 

"  Give  you  away  ?  " 

She  would  not  explain,  nor  let  him  talk  just  then;  she 
was  quite  a  good  nurse,  and  recognised  he  was  not  yet  in  a 
condition  even  for  listening.  She  was  hot  in  pursuit  of  a 
quarry  even  more  promising  than  he  had  been,  when,  hearing 
of  his  resurrection,  she  had  hurried  to  his  side.  She  wanted 
secrecy  from  him,  and  was  annoyed  to  find  him  in  no  condition 
for  argument  or  compromise.  She  reckoned  on  his  not  having 
yet  heard  from  England;  on  his  being  in  ignorance  of  that 
which  by  now  she  knew  the  McKays  had  discovered.  She  had 
no  time  to  waste.  The  new  quarry  lay  in  Cape  Town  at  the 
mercy  of  her  ministrations.  But  she  had  many  rivals,  ladies 
fair  and  ladies  frail,  and  she  wanted  to  get  back  to  her  post. 

"I  wish  now  I  had  thought  of  some  other  name,"  she 
said  reflectively,  as  she  lifted  Desmond's  head  and  put  the  cup 
to  his  lips. 

She  meant  that  in  such  case  she  need  not  have  come  to 
Waterval;  Lord  Grindelay  would  not  have  known  she  was  in 
South  Africa,  could  not  have  interfered  with  her.  With  the 
strange  inconsistency  of  her  kind,  she  had  no  mind  even  now 
to  tell  him  that  he  had  no  right  of  interference. 


FULL  SWING  217 

"  You  lie  still  and  get  well,  that's  what  you've  got  to  do," 
was  her  answer  to  the  inquiry  in  his  fever-dulled  eyes. 

"  Do  they  know  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  lied  convincingly. 

"  Nobody  knows,  nobody  has  got  to  know — mind  that." 

It  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  and  afterwards  he  rested  fitfully. 

Freedom  had  come  to  her  since  she  had  been  out  here. 
Convict  No.  3734  was  dead.  But  young  Lord  Grindelay  had 
not  known  of  his  existence.  She  had  to  make  her  plans  before 
he  was  better  informed.  She  had  to  vamp  up  for  him  some 
tale  of  irregularity  in  the  ceremony  they  had  gone  through. 
There  would  be  no  difficulty  in  making  him  repeat  it.  She 
knew  the  nature  of  his  chivalry,  and  how  to  play  on  it.  The 
child  was  a  great  asset.  But  she  had  much  bigger  game  on 
hand,  ever  so  much  bigger.  She  was  clever  and  daring;  the 
Earl  of  Montressor  weak,  dull  witted  and  amenable.  Without 
the  chain  of  convict  No.  3734  dragging  beliind  her  there  was 
nothing  of  which  she  did  not  feel  capable.  But  she  would 
k,eep  this  other  string  to  her  bow  as  long  as  possible.  She  had 
got  that  five  thousand  pounds  so  easily  that  it  seemed  to  her 
there  must  be  much  more  behind  where  it  came  from.  There 
was  money  to  be  made,  too,  from  the  earl,  even  if  he  broke 
away.  She  wanted  all  she  could  get.  She  was  typical  of  the 
class  of  women,  not  voluptuaries,  but  mere  traders,  who  grow 
greedier  as  they  grow  older. 

"  I've  got  to  get  back  in  a  few  days,"  she  told  Desmond. 
**  You  and  me  have  got  to  have  some  talk.  But  not  yet,  not 
until  you  are  better,  buck  along  up,  now." 

There  was  something  about  which  he  wanted  to  ask  her, 
but  he  had  forgotten  what  it  was.  In  semi-delirium  it  came 
back  to  him,  and  that  night  he  caught  at  her  skirt  to  detain 
her,  only  to  find  it  was  another  skirt  he  held;  then  again  he 
relapsed  into  unconsciousness.  Doctors  and  nurses  came  and 
went  in  that  hasty  but  admirably  organised  field  hospital, 
Nurse  Eadlett  evadingly  among  them. 

Letters  from  home  were  on  the  way,  delayed  here  and 
there  by  the  exigencies  of  the  war.  The  first  thing  that  came 
was  Michael  McKay's  cable. 


218  FULL  SWIN(^ 

Michael  was  coming  out  to  him.  He  wondered  why,  not 
wanting  Michael,  nor  anybody,  only  to  be  allowed  to  be  still, 
to  drift  out  through  the  swaying  door.  His  wife  was  here 
somewhere.  He  should  be  grateful,  but  he  shrank  from  her 
weakly,  flesh  and  spirit  shrank.  He  had  a  dim,  sick  man's 
insight  sometimes  into  Gabrielle's  mind;  she  said  strange 
things — strange,  impatient  things.  The  intermittent  fever 
came  and  went.  In  delirium  Eunice  would  float  in  some- 
times, put  a  cool  hand  on  his  forehead,  say  "  Yes  "  or  "  No  " 
soothingly  in  response  to  his  gabble,  to  the  disjointed  words 
he  poured  out,  in  which  he  tried  to  tell  her  how  it  all  came 
about,  how  little  it  meant,  that  he  had  never  cared  about  any- 
body but  her.  He  called  out  her  name,  then  woke,  sweating 
and  afraid  lest  Gabrielle  should  have  heard. 

Gabrielle  was  tired  of  it,  bored  with  the  field  hospital, 
with  Desmond.  She  wanted  to  go  back  to  the  variety  and 
colour  of  Cape  Town,  to  the  languishing  earl.  But  after 
Michael's  cable  came  she  dared  not  stir.  She  had  three 
weeks  before  her,  three  weeks  in  which  to  make  her  choice. 
She  was  distracted  with  it,  like  the  dog  with  the  big  piece  of 
meat  in  its  mouth  and  the  reflection  in  the  water.  She  could 
make  Desmond  marry  her  again,  she  had  no  doubt  about  that, 
if  she  could  concoct  a  story  for  him  before  Michael  got  in  with 
his.  But  Desmond  was  surrounded  by  his  friends  and  com- 
rades, too  ill  to  assert  himself;  he  was  under  their  protection. 
And  she  had  just  such  another  young  fool  in  tow.  She  was 
undecided,  fearing  to  miss  the  substance  for  the  shadow, 
delaying  Desmond's  recovery  by  the  turmoil  in  which  she  kept 
his  mind.  For  in  his  weakness  it  but  reflected  her  own.  And 
he  did  not  know  what  she  wanted  of  him ;  only  that  she  stood 
between  him  and  Marley.  He  improved  very  slowly,  almost 
imperceptibly ;  he  seemed  to  make  no  effort. 

"  There  must  be  something  on  his  mind,"  said  one  doctor 
to  another. 

"  We  must  get  him  away  as  soon  as  possible." 

They  tried  the  experiment  of  telling  him  that  he  was 
going  to  be  sent  home,  and  were  astounded  when  he  answered 
agitatedly  in  that  weak  voice  of  his  that  he  could  not  go,  that 


FULL  SWING  219 

he  wished  to  stay  "where  he  was.  His  fever  flamed  higher  after 
that ;  he  responded  less  well  to  their  drugs  or  their  efforts.  In 
the  end  the  offices  of  the  army  chaplain  were  invoked.  And 
the  army  chaplain  wasted  few  words.  It  did  not  seem  to  him 
to  be  the  time  for  them,  nor  for  texts,  other  than  one  he  did 
not  preach,  but  proved. 

"  You've  something  on  your  mind,  Grindelay ;  you  are  not 
making  the  progress  they  expect  of  you.  Is  there  anything  I 
can  do  for  you — that  you'd  like  to  tell  me  ?  We're  proud  of 
you,  but  you're  disappointing  us." 

"I  don't  see  there  is  anything  to  be  proud  of,"  Desmond 
answered  wearily.  "  I  made  a  mess  of  an  expedition,  led  my 
men  into  a  trap,  cost  a  lot  of  good  fellows  their  lives." 

"  Is  that  what's  troubling  you  ?  " 

He'  was  without  fever  at  the  moment,  but  also  without 
interest  or  energy.  This  was  when  he  wrote  that  letter  to  his 
mother.  His  v^dfe  had  not  been  near  him  for  days  now;  he 
did  not  know  what  had  become  of  her.  But  he  knew  all 
about  what  he  had  done.  Married  a  woman  he  could  never 
take  home,  forfeited  home,  Eunice,  all  for  nothing,  for  a 
woman  who  mocked  him  and  would  not  answer  a  question. 
Michael  was  coming  out  to  him,  perhaps  to  tell  him  that  his 
place  was  filled.  Young  Lord  Grindelay  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall ;  he  did  not  wish  to  get  better  or  well. 

"  Is  it  the  loss  of  your  men  that  is  troubling  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"What  is  it,  then?"  the  parson  repeated  gently.  "If 
you  cared  to  tell  me  I  might  be  able  to  help." 

"No  one  can  help  me,"  Desmond  said  weakly,  with  his 
face  to  the  wall, 

"Home  troubles?" 

"  Nothing  I've  not  brought  upon  myself."  He  moved  rest- 
lessly in  the  bed.    "  Don't  bother  about  me." 

"  You  are  disappointing  the  doctors,  who  have  taken  end- 
less trouble  over  you,"  the  parson  persisted. 

"  I  wish  they  hadn't !    I  wish  they'd  let  me  die !  " 

"It  has  been  almost  a  miracle  that  your  arm  is  saved. 
You  are  not  grateful  for  that  ?  " 


220  FULL  SWING 

"  No !  "  shortly. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  be,  that's  all  I  can  say." 

The  parson  was  rebuffed,  a  little  offended,  perhaps,  getting 
up  as  if  to  go  away,  then  changing  his  mind  and  coming  back 
to  the  side  of  the  bed.  "You've  been  kept  secluded,  with 
this  screen  round  you.  They  are  taking  it  away  presently. 
Look  round  you  then,  thinJc.  You  have  some  trouble,  some 
private  trouble.  I  see  that,  and  I  wish  I  could  have  been  of 
use  to  you,  but  you  won't  let  me  try.  I'm  going  to  say  one 
thing  more  to  you " — Desmond's  face  was  still  averted — 
"  whether  you  wish  to  hear  it  or  not.  There  is  only  one  way 
to  lighten  a  heavy  heart ;  take  another's  burden  on  it.  Blend 
the  two  with  sympathy;  you'll  find  the  sympathy  acts  like 
yeast.  Well,  good-bye.  I  see  you  don't  want  to  talk  to  me. 
When  you  do,  you  will  find  friends  around  you.  They  will 
preach  to  you  better  than  I  can." 

He  spoke  to  dull  ears.  Desmond  could  think  of  nothing 
but  his  wife.  For  days  now  she  had  not  been  near  him.  But 
she  had  impressed  secrecy  upon  him,  spoken  of  an  irregu- 
larity in  their  marriage,  hinted  at  things  to  be  set  right.  He 
was  so  much  less  a  man  than  he  had  been,  by  reason  of  his 
pain  and  wounds  and  recurrent  fever,  that  he  could  not  face 
his  future  with  her  at  all.  Michael  was  coming,  and  he  would 
have  to  speak  of  her  to  Michael,  hear  what  happy  news  he 
brought.  Never  in  the  worst  agony  of  pain  and  fever  had  he 
longed  for  water  as  he  longed  now  for  Marley  or  for  Eunice, 
even  sometimes  for  his  mother.  He  had  thrown  everything 
away. 

Yet  something  of  the  Rev.  Alan  Hodder's  words  must 
have  penetrated.  For  the  day  after  his  visit,  the  screen  re- 
moved and  all  the  tented  bareness  of  the  room  revealed, 
Desmond  found  himself  no  longer  with  his  face  to  the  wall, 
but  lying  on  his  back,  seeing  many  pallet  beds  and  strange, 
unshaven  faces.  Before  he  had  time  for  recognition  one 
from  the  bed  beside  his  own  called  out : 

"  Hullo ! " 

This  was  not  a  man,  but  a  boy,  quite  a  young  boy  he 
seemed,  and  one  strangely  familiar. 


FULL  SWING  221 

"  Hullo !  "  Desmond  answered  vaguely. 

"  Getting  better  ?  " 

The  question  brought  no  ready  answer.  Desmond  stared 
at  "his  interlocutor,  and  his  interlocutor  gazed  back  at  him. 
Neither  of  them  moved;  one  of  them  because  he  could  not, 
the  other  because  he  had  not  the  energy  or  the  desire. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know  who  I  am." 

"  I  am  not  sure ;  we're  all  ghosts,  I  suppose.  Did  I  know 
you  when  we  were  alive  ?  '* 

"  I'm  Thwaites." 

"Thwaites?" 

"  Jimmy  Thwaites ! " 

«  Jimmy  Thwaites  ?  " 

"  Eton.  You  can't  have  forgotten.  I  say,  you  must  have 
been  thundering  bad.  This  is  the  first  time  anyone  has  seen 
you  since  you  were  brought  here.  There  was  a  screen  round 
your  bed.  But  you  are  better,  and  that's  good  news.  Isn't 
it  rum  that  there  are  three  of  us  here.    Three  O.E.'s !  " 

"  You're  Bunny  !  "  Desmond  exclaimed. 

"  Bunny  I  am,  what's  left  of  him !  " 

It  was  the  same  old  Bunny,  his  little  pal  from  Eton, 
whimsical,  with  his  gutta-percha  face  and  wide  smile. 

"  You've  come  to  it  now.  And  '  Paddy  from  Cork '  you 
were.  But  now  you're  *  No  Surrender  Grindelay ! '  and 
there'll  be  medals  for  your  breast,  my  bhoy ! " 

He  imitated  the  brogue  as  he  had  oft«n  done  before,  and 
some  of  his  boyhood,  of  which  this  young  Bunny  had  been  a 
part,  came  dully  back  to  Desmond. 

"  You  haven't  lost  your  impudence,"  he  answered. 

He  had  said  they  were  all  ghosts,  and  it  was  but  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  he  had  for  the  imitation.  But  even  that 
cleared  his  mind  and  his  sight  a  little. 

"  Same  old  Bunny !  Wlio  are  the  others,  who  else  is 
here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  We're  the  others.    Elphinstone  is  here." 

"  Elphinstone ! " 

The  conversation  ended  then.  An  orderly  came  round. 
Desmond  had  to  be  fed,  his  restored  arm  was  still  useless. 


222  FULL  SWING- 

When  he  wanted  to  talk  again,  but  that  was  not  until  a  few 
hours  later.  Bunny  was  asleep.  He  himself  slept  better  that 
night,  better  than  he  had  done  since  they  brought  him  here. 
And  in  the  morning  he  seemed  to  have  a  new  interest  in  life. 

"  Bunny — it  is  you,  isn't  it,  I  didn't  dream  it  ?  " 

"  The  top  of  the  morning  to  you.  I've  been  wondering  how 
much  longer  you  were  going  to  lie  there  like  a  log.  I'd  have 
thrown  a  wet  sponge  at  you,  but  there  isn't-  one  handy.  I 
haven't  been  called  Bunny  since  I  left  Eton.  They  called  me 
'  The  Kid '  at  Sandhurst." 

"  You  bounded,  I  suppose."  The  old  jokes  came  back  to 
him,  the  old  slang. 

"  Wrong  again,  it  was  because  I  was  so  expert  at  a  bottle. 
I  say,  hasn't  this  been  a  rag?  We've  busted  their  old  com- 
mandoes sky  high.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything. 
I  only  wish  I  wasn't  going  home.  There's  lots  of  fun  to 
come." 

"  Why  should  we  go  home  ?  We  can  get  leave  to  rejoin,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  You  can,  lucky  beast."  But  it  was  quite  a  cheerful 
grumble. 

"Well,  why  can't  you?" 

Bunny  Thwaites  looked  healthy,  although  smaller-  than 
ever,  shrunken  a  little.  But  what  they  had  all  gone  through 
at  the  hands  of  the  Boers  would  account  for  that.  His  blue 
eyes  were  still  alight  with  fun,  and  his  boyish  spirit  shone  in 
them. 

"  Why  can't  I  ?  Well,  for  one  thing,  because  they've  shot 
off  both  my  legs,  bad  cess  to  them !  " 

Desmond  went  quite  white,  Jimmy's  sharp  eyes  saw  it. 
There  was  no  one  near  either  of  them. 

"You're  not  going  to  faint  away  like  a  bally  girl,  are 
you  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously.  "  I  shouldn't  do  that  if  I  were 
you.    It's  the  fortune  of  war." 

Desmond  could  not  answer.  Bunny,  little  Bunny 
Thwaites,  the  readiest  and  most  alert  of  fags,  and  such  a  fives 
player ! 


FULL  SWING  223 

"  I'll  be  about  on  my  stumps  before  you  know  where  you 
are.    What's  a  leg  or  two  ?  " 

He  was  brave — too  brave.  When  he  saw  tears  rolling  down 
Desmond's  cheeks,  and  that  he  was  trying  to  wipe  them  away 
or  hide  them  with  his  red  flannel  sleeve,  his  own  voice  faltered. 
But  he  went  on  after  a  minute. 

"What's  a  leg  or  two,  Paddy?  Don't  take  on.  I'll  get 
about  with  cork  ones,  get  a  bigger  pair  than  I  ever  had  of  my 
own,  and  look  quite  a  fine  fellow.    Don't  howl,  Paddy." 

"  I'm  not  howling." 

"  I'm  only  half  as  badly  off  as  Elphinstone." 

"Who  is  talking  about  me?"  came  a  cheery  voice  from 
the  other  comer  of  the  ward,  two  beds  away  from  them. 

Jimmy  answered ;  Desmond  could  not  command  his  voice. 

"  Paddy  from  Cork ;  he's  come  to  life  again." 

"  What?    '  Ko  Surrender  Grindelay  ? '    That's  good  news. 

"  '  Surrender  be  damned ! '  was  what  he  said.  You  remem- 
ber what  a  foul-mouthed  brute  he  always  was." 

"  Glad  you've  come  round,  Grindelay.  You've  been  pretty 
bad,  haven't  you?    We've  all  been  anxious  about  you." 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you." 

Elphinstone  had  been  a  very  big  pot  at  Eton;  captain  of 
the  Top,  captain  of  the  boats;  in  the  Sixth.  Desmond  turned 
his  head  away  from  poor  Jimmy  and  toward  Elphinstone  as 
he  spoke.  He  had  hardly  recovered  from  the  shock  of  hearing 
about  Jimmy's  legs ;  he  could  not  bear  to  look  at  the  bed. 

There  was  little  to  be  seen  of  Elphinstone  but  bandages. 

"  You've  been  knocked  about,  too  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Shut  up !  "  broke  in  Bunny  shortly,  quickly,  under  his 
breath. 

"  Why  should  he  shut  up  ?  I  wish  all  you  fellows  wouldn't 
think  I'm  sensitive."  The  clear  voice  cut  across  to  where  they 
lay  through  the  odour  of  iodoform  and  disinfectants.  "  I'm 
blind,  Grindelay !    I  can  hear  you  talk,  but  I  can't  see  you." 

"  Oh,  my  God !    Not  blind — not  for  always,  Elphie?  " 

"  Dear  old  boy !  Don't  be  too  sorry  for  me.  There's  lots 
worse  off  than  I  am.  You'd  be  surprised  how  keenly  I  hear, 
better  every  day.    I  shall  be  able  to  row,  you  know,  and  lots  of 


224  FULL  SWING 

other  things.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  my  riding.  Poor 
old  Bunny,  now — the  poor  Kid !  " 

Desmond,  all  his  limbs  intact,  even  if  for  the  moment 
his  right  arm  was  stiff  and  useless,  heard  later  on  that  Elphin- 
stone  had  had  the  top  of  his  head  blown  off  by  a  shell,  and 
both  his  eyes  with  it.  Elphinstone !  They  had  walked  down 
the  High  together,  arm  in  arm,  iu  their  silk  hats  and  exclu- 
sive waistcoats.  They  had  cheered  their  House  at  football 
matches.    It  was  Elphinstone  who  had  got  him  into  the  boat. 

Before  Elphinstone  and  Jimmy  and  their  courage,  the  lost 
woods  of  Marley  grew  faint  and  blurred,  and  Desmond  be- 
came ashamed  of  his  self-absorption.  There  came  an  esprit 
de  corps  into  that  canvas  tent,  with  its  row  of  pallet  beds — 
something  of  the  old  school  spirit,  when  they  knew  better 
than  to  cry  out  when  they  were  hurt.  There  were  other  men 
there,  eleven  altogether;  some  from  other  big  schools,  one  or 
two  from  the  colonies.  Jimmy  said  they  ought  to  get  up  a 
cricket  match,  and  suggested  himself  as  "stumper." 

But  Elphinstone  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  ward.  He 
chaffed  the  nurses  ajid  even  flirted  with  them.  Notwithstand- 
ing that  he  must  always  wear  a  bandage  because  of  his  dis- 
figurement, and  that  so  little  time  ago  he  was  the  handsomest 
of  lads,  he  talked  as  if  little  was  altered.  It  was  pitiful,  but 
it  was  fine.  He  was  for  ever  testing  his  increasing  sharpness 
of  hearing,  "  swaggering  it,"  Bunny  said.  Bunny  and  all  of 
them  were  benefited  by  Elphinstone's  fine  courage  and  the 
way  he  bore  his  trouble.  It  was  as  if  he  was  still  the  head 
of  his  House,  his  influence  telling.  He  was  grateful  for  the 
gift  of  life  that  Desmond  had  been  for  abandoning.  But, 
then,  he  came  of  a  family  of  Christians,  and  had  the  light  that 
helped  his  blindness.  Desmond's  troubles  began  to  look  small 
even  to  himself.     The  parson's  text  was  working. 

It  was  wonderful,  although  it  was  so  pitiful,  to  see  the 
cheerfulness  of  that  hospital  ward  as  the  days  went  on.  Stories 
were  told  and  songs  were  sung.  Cruelly  marred  and  blasted, 
mere  remnants  of  men,  they  jested  about  their  misfortunes, 
gloried  in  their  comrades'  successes,  extolled  Eoberts  or  com- 
miserated Gatacre,  were  grateful  for  the  comforts  that  came 


FULL  SWING  235 

to  them,  looked  forward  to  going  home,  but  envied  those  who 
could  remain  here,  their  spirit  whole  in  their  marred  bodies, 
oflScers  and  gentlemen  in  their  red  jackets  and  unshaven  faces. 

By  the  time  Michael  McKay  got  to  Pretoria  Desmond  was 
nearly  well.  He  had  heard  no  more  of  Gabrielle.  Hurriedly 
as  she  came,  so  hurriedly  had  she  gone.  Sometimes  now  it 
seemed  as  if  it  had  really  been  a  dream,  or  a  nightmare; 
that  she  had  been  here,  urging  him  to  silence,  threatening 
he  knew  not  what. .  He  knew  he  must  seek  her  out  before  he 
went  home,  settle  things  up  with  her,  and  ask  her  that  ques- 
tion which  now  seemed  part  of  his  delirium.  He  would  accept 
all  Ms  obligations.  But  for  the  moment  the  greatest  of  them 
was  to  take  his  share  in  keeping  up  the  spirit  of  the  ward — 
"  keeping  up  the  tone  of  the  house,"  as  Jimmy  called  it. 

When  Michael  came,  term  was  nearly  over;  they  were 
breaking  up.  Some  were  to  be  drafted  to  Pretoria,  to  find  the 
superior  accommodation  and  treatment  the  Pretoria  hospital 
afforded;  others  were  to  go  to  Cape  Town  and  thence  home. 

Desmond,  his  arm  still  in  a  sling,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in 
his  thin  brown  face,  met  Michael  outside  the  hospital  tent. 
Michael,  incongruous  among  the  tethered  horses  on  the 
pawed  ground,  the  baggage  waggons  and  men  in  shirt  sleeves, 
was  inquiring  his  way.  All  v,^as  cheerful  haste,  for  they  were 
to  be  up  and  moving  before  dawn. 

"  The  field  hospital  ?    Just  in  front  of  your  nose." 

"  Lord  Grindelay  ?  Oh,  yes,  he's  there  right  enough,  unless 
he's  walking  about  somewhere." 

"  I  saw  him  ten  minutes  ago,  over  there  with  tlie  horses." 

Michael  did  not  recognise  Desmond  when  he  did  see  him 
— not  for  the  moment.  More  than  his  expression  had  altered. 
There  was  little  of  the  boy  left  in  him,  for  all  he  was  still 
so  young.  He  had  seen  sights  that  had  put  chasms  between 
himself  and  boyhood. 

"  Who  was  inquiring  for  me  ?  Why,  it's  Michael  McKay  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  flushing,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Desmond !    It  is  Desmond,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Michael  exclaimed,  and  then  explained,  all  in  the  tradi- 
tional Michael  manner. 
15 


226  FITLL  SWING 

"  A  year  is  a  long  time.  You've  been  away  the  best  part 
of  a  year.    And  then,  of  course,  you  must  have  been  exceed- 

ingly  ill." 

"  You  need  not  apologise  for  not  knowing  me,"  answered 
Desmond  with  a  laugh.    "  I  hardly  know  myself." 

But  after  that,  and  Michael's  protestations  that  it  was 
only  in  the  first  moment  of  coming  upon  him  unexpectedly 
that  he  had  failed  to  recognise  him,  there  was  not  quick  or 
complete  ease  between  them. 

Desmond  showed  Michael  the  camp,  made  him  free  of  its 
hospitality,  thanked  him  for  coming  up.  But  when,  later  on, 
they  spoke  of  Marley  and  those  who  had  sent  him,  they  spoke 
with  constraint. 

They  were  at  Cape  Town  waiting  for  the  steamer  before 
the  constraint  loosened.  The  steamers  were  all  over-crowded 
and  the  hotels  full  to  their  utmost  capacity.  All  had  been 
bustle  and  confusion  on  the  way  down  from  Pretoria,  and 
there  had  been  little  opportunity  for  private  conversation. 
Michael  had  taken  an  intelligent  interest  in  all  he  saw, 
although  his  intelligence  was  often  clouded  by  his  pity,  when 
he  became  silent  and  tried  to  hide  it.  Wounded  men  and 
officers  were  still  pouring  into  Cape  Town — the  wastage  of 
the  army.  And  there  were  mothers  and  sisters,  sweethearts 
and  wives  waiting,  some  of  them  in  hastily-donned  black, 
Elphinstone's  mother  was  amongst  them.  Michael  saw  her 
meeting  with  her  son,  and  other  cruel  meetings 

He  saw  harpies  also.  Women  in  smart  clothes,  here  on 
the  pretence  of  helping,  or  being  near  their  husbands,  but 
swooping  for  pleasure  amid  the  carnage — vultures  to  their 
filthy  feast.  And  Gabrielle  Eadlett  was  amongst  them. 
Gabrielle's  name  was  the  first  to  break  the  constraint  between 
the  young  men. 

Desmond  was  not  yet  aware  that  his  mother  knew  of  his 
marriage.  He  would  not  go  home  without  her  knowing  it, 
home  to  Marley  and  Eunice,  for  all  the  loving  messages 
Michael  brought.  He  had  been  still  weak  when  he  left  Water- 
val,  with  recurrent  bouts  of  malaria,  and  he  had  even  now 
but  limited  movement  in  his  arm. 


FULL  SWING  227 

"  If  it  were  not  for  that  I'd  ask  for  leave  to  rejoin,"  he 
said  almost  inadvertently  to  Michael,  as  they  sat  smoking  in 
the  hall  of  the  hotel.  There  were  gay  ladies  going  up  and 
down  the  stairs,  lingering  in  the  vestibule,  traffic  passing 
between  them  and  the  men  who  but  yesterday  had  gazed  at 
death. 

"  The  war  is  not  over.  No  one  who  has  been  with  those 
fellows  as  I  have  can  believe  thejr'll  give  in  all  at  once." 

"  Your  mother  wishes  you  to  come  to  Marley  as  quickly 
as  possible." 

Michael  had  been,  as  his  father  predicted,  very  helpful 
and  attentive  to  Desmond  these  last  few  days,  guarding  him 
from  fatigue,  remembering  when  it  was  time  for  his  medicine 
or  tonic,  saving  him  every  possible  inconvenience  of  the  hot 
and  tedio^^s  railway  journey. 

"  I  told  you  already  in  Waterval,  you  remember,  that  Lady 
Grindelay  wishes  you  to  come  back  as  speedily  as  possible." 

"  She  doesn't  know,"  Desmond  began  dully. 

"There  is  nothing  she  doesn't  know,"  Michael  answered 
ponderously. 

That  was  the  moment  when  Desmond  became  aware  of 
Gabrielle  coming  down  the  stairs  with  shrill  talk  and  laughter, 
Gabrielle  with  undraped  shoulders  and  a  light  scarf,  and  a 
young  man  in  attendance,  a  young  man  with  a  loose  mouth 
and  retreating  chin,  who  answered  her  sallies. 

"  They  don't  know  I'm  married,"  he  blurted  out,  and  then 
went  on  desperately : 

"  That  woman  over  there  is  ...  is  my  wife ! "  He  ex- 
pected an  exclamation  from  Michael. 

"  She  is  nothing  of  the  kind,"  Michael  answered  with 
decision. 

Gabrielle's  shrill  voice  came  to  them.  In  evening  dress 
she  was  so  much  more  vulgar  than  in  nurse's  costume;  she 
was  painted  and  her  red  hair  brighter  than  he  remembered  it. 

"  I  married  her  before  I  came  out,"  Desmond  repeated. 
Gabrielle  had  not  seen  them.    And  again  Michael  answered: 

"  No,  you  didn't.  You  thought  you  did.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  have  told  you  before,"  he  went  on,  "  but  we  seem  to  have 


228  FULL  SWING 

had  so  little  time  for  talk.  That  is  what  I  came  out  to  tell  you 
— the  chief  reason.  My  father  and  I  found  out  she  was  already 
married  when  she  went  through  that  ceremony  with  you." 

Desmond  dropped  into  his  seat.  The  slightest  agitation 
brought  back  the  throbbing  in  his  arm,  a  sickening  disability. 
In  the  distance  he  could  yet  see  Gabrielle  and  her  companion. 
They  were  going  out  together ;  cloaking  her  was  the  man  with 
the  under-hung  chin  and  the  familiar  manners. 

"  I  can't  understand  what  you  are  telling  me.  How  did 
you  know  ?    Does  my  mother  know  ?  " 

Desmond's  brain  was  not  acting  well.  The  first  shock  of 
the  news  found  him  without  the  capacity  to  understand  its 
full  significance.  There  was  a  rush  of  pleasure,  incomprehen- 
sible pleasure,  then  doubt  and  bewilderment.  He  had  mar- 
ried Gabrielle  from  a  sense  of  duty,  because  of  something  she 
had  told  him,  and  what  his  mother  had  said.  Could  it  be 
true  that  she  had  already  a  husband?  What  had  become 
of And  then  he  left  off  thinking  and  looked  at  Michael. 

"  I  may  be  an  awful  fool.  I  don't  understand  a  word  you 
are  telling  me.  Fact  is,  I  am  not  quite  myself.  You  say  you 
know  all  about  my  marriage,  and  that  everybody  knows,  that 
it  isn't  legal;  but " 

"  Shall  1  begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell  you  all  we 
know  ?  " 

"I  wish  you  would.  My  head  is  so  woolly  to-night;  I've 
got  no  brain." 

But  it  came  back  to  him  when  Michael  told  him  of  his 
meeting  with  Gabrielle  at  the  War  Office,  and  of  all  that 
followed,  or  of  much  that  followed.  Desmond  listened  in 
bewildered  silence. 

"  You  told  my  mother  ?  " 

"We  had  no  choice." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  My  father  told  her.  I  was  not  there ;  but  I  understand 
it  was  not  a  great  surprise  to  her.  She  seemed  to  think  in 
some  way  she  was  herself  responsible.  Her  great  anxiety  was 
that  your  cousin  should  know  nothing,  be  told  nothing.     It 


FULL  SWINGS  229 

was  just  before  her  operation;  she  had  just  heard  she  must 
undergo  an  operation." 

Desmond  had  already  been  told  of  his  mother's  illness. 

"She  did  not  wish  her  niece  should  have  this  further 
trouble."  It  was  difficult  for  Michael  to  say  that  Lady  Grin- 
delay  wished  to  spare  her  niece  the  knowledge  of  Desmond's 
marriage  because  she  knew  how  unbearable  it  would  be  to  the 
girl.    He  stopped. 

"  But  afterwards,  when  everything  was  known  ?  "  Desmond 
persisted. 

"Afterwards?  Well,  quite  soon  afterwards  we  knew  it 
was  no  marriage  at  all.  Then  came  the  operation,  and  the 
news  that  you  were  not  dead.  There  was  no  object  in  telling 
Eunice." 

Michael's  steady  voice  had  a  break  in  it;  but  Desmond, 
listening  avidly,  never  noticed  it.  Not  only  was  he  free,  but 
Eunice  knew  nothing  of  his  folly,  madness,  wickedness. 

«  Go  on." 

Michael  had  to  tell  him  that  at  first  Lady  Grindelay 
would  not  have  Eunice  know  because  it  would  add  to  her 
grief.  Eunice  was  to  continue  to  deck  her  altar  to  him  with 
flowers,  to  keep  his  memory  beautiful  and  sweet.  And  that 
afterwards  she  would  not  allow  her  joy  in  the  news  that  he 
was  not  dead  to  be  clouded  by  hearing  that  he  had  not  been 
all  she  thought  him. 

Everything  was  for  Desmond,  whilst  he,  Michael,  who 
loved  her  so  much  better,  and  had  never  faltered  in  loving 
her,  was  only  here  to  tell  the  tale,  to  bring  them  together. 
He  felt  the  bitterness  of  it  as  he  went  on: 

"  That  is  Lady  Grindelay's  great  desire,  her  most  urgent 

message  to  you.     She  insists  upon  secrecy,     Eunice " 

Desmond  had  a  spasm  of  jealousy,  he  did  not  know  that 
Michael  had  the  privilege  of  her  name.  "  Eunice  is  to  know 
nothing.  Your  mother  thought  you  might  be  writing  to  her. 
But  you  are  to  tell  her  nothing,  except" — again  Michael 
paused  for  an  imperceptible  second — "except  that  you  are 
coming  back  to  her  as  quickly  as  you  can  travel.  I  have  a 
letter  that  I  am  not  to  give  you  until  you  are  in  full  posses- 


330  FULL  SWING 

sion  of  all  the  circumstances ;  but  I  know  what  the  gist  of  it 
is,  and  I  am  to  tell  you  verbally,  as  Lady  Grindelay  told  it  to 
me,  that  you  are  to  consider  the  incident  closed,  to  be  for- 
gotten.   We  paid  five  thousand  pounds." 

"  My  mother  gave  her  money  ?  "  he  stanmiered. 

"  She  made  ample  provision  for  the  woman  and  her  child. 
She  did  not  hold  you  entirely  to  blame  in  the  matter.  She 
urged  me  to  tell  you  this.    All  she  asks  in  return  is  secrecy." 

"  But  I  must  see  Gabrielle." 

"  Why  ?  Cannot  I  see  her  for  you,  if  there  is  anything 
to  be  gained  by  it  ?  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  We 
have  our  proofs." 

"  I  insisted  upon  marrying  her,  she  told  me  she  was  going 

to  have  a  child "    Desmond  spoke  hesitatingly,  in  a  stifled 

voice. 

"  That  has  all  been  arranged,"  Michael  answered  hastily. 
There  seemed  an  indelicacy,  an  impossibility  of  pursuing  the 
subject. 

Michael  knew  he  was  also  expected  to  make  it  clear  that 
Lady  Grindelay's  opposition  to  a  marriage  between  Desmond 
and  his  cousin  had  no  longer  to  be  faced,  that  she  was  eager 
for  it  now,  urgent  even.  He  could  not  speak  of  Desmond's 
child  and  of  Eunice  in  the  same  breath.  Michael  thought  he 
never  could  have  done  such  a  thing  as  Desmond  had.  All  his 
friendliness  was  an  effort. 

Desmond  had  a  recurrence  of  fever  that  night.  Michael 
shared  a  room  with  him  and  tended  him  well,  covering  him 
with  blankets  in  the  shivering  stage  and  administering 
quinine.  When  in  the  early  morning  Desmond  lay  exhausted 
and  sleeping,  Michael  went  downstairs  to  breakfast,  and  made 
the  daily  inquiry  about  steamer  accommodation.  So  many 
were  hurrying  home.  But  there  was  one  whom  it  was  impos- 
sible to  hurry,  and  when  he  embarked  his  voyage  would  be  a 
longer  one.  Michael,  when  he  heard  that  Eric  Elphinstone 
had  had  a  sudden  attack  of  heart  failure,  that  neither  his 
mother  nor  he  would  be  using  their  berths,  hurried  round  at 


FULL  SWING  231 

once  to  see  if  it  were  possible  to  obtain  the  reversion  of  them. 
It  was  soon  arranged.  Lady  Elphinstone  saw  him,  and  her 
eyes  were  illumined  with  something  deeper  than  grief,  and 
steadier, 

"  Eric  has  spoken  so  often  of  Lord  Grindelay ;  he  will  be 
glad  to  know  you  are  to  have  our  berths,"  she  told  Michael. 
"^  He  does  not  want  our  dear  ones  at  home  to  see  him  as  he  is. 
I  think  it  came  to  him  as  a  relief  when  he  was  told  yesterday 
evening  that  he  was  not  to  go.  *  Not  yet,'  the  doctors  said ; 
but  he  understood " 

She  broke  off,  Her  pride  shone  in  her  eyes,  but  her  grief 
was  grey  in  her  cheeks  and  grey  on  her  lips. 

Michael  looked  out  of  the  window  as  she  spoke  to  him. 
The  bay  was  full  of  shipping,  painted  funnels  and  white  sails 
under  the  blue  skies.  Many  sounds  came  up  to  him  where 
he  stood.  But  the  sound  of  sobbing  was  louder  than  any  of 
them.  It  was  not  in  the  room,  nor  from  her ;  it  was  following 
the  army  home.  Her  voice  had  been  steady,  and  his  own 
words  showed  no  feeling,  even  if  his  eyes  could  not  face  hers. 

"  Then  we  can  have  the  berths  ?  " 

Not  a  word  of  sympathy  could  he  get  out,  although,  as 
they  went  through  the  little  necessary  business,  his  hand 
shook  so  that  he  was  unable  to  sign  the  transfer.  Cool,  pre- 
cise Michael  came  away  all  unnerved  from  that  interview. 
He  never  told  Desmond  whose  berths  they  were  that  he  had 
secured.  They  were  in  England  again  before  Desmond  knew 
that  "  Elphie  "  had  gone  home,  in  his  mother's  arms,  and  so 
gladly. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

All  through  that  voyage,  whilst  Desmond  was  regaining  his 
strength,  growing  healthily  bronzed,  discovering  an  appetite, 
Michael  controlled  his  feelings  and  played  the  part  he  had 
been  sent  out  to  perform. 

He  "took  care''  of  Desmond,  saved  him  from  impru- 
dences, reminded  him  of  liability  to  cold,  urged  the  continu- 
ance of  the  quinine.  He  forced  himself  to  talk  of  Marley, 
and  those  whom  Marley  held,  when  Desmond  walked  the 
deck  by  his  side  or  started  the  subject  when  they  were  undress- 
ing in  their  cabin  or  lay  in  their  bunks.  Desmond  was  never 
tired  of  hearing  of  Marley.  Every  hour  was  taking  him 
nearer  to  his  home.  He  was  obeying  his  mother's  message 
literally,  forgetting  the  past.  Michael  had  executed  his  com- 
mission faithfully,  however  resentfully,  omitting  nothing. 
Desmond  heard  how  Eunice  had  grieved  for  him,  how  his 
mother  had  despaired ;  that  he  was  going  back  now  as  a  hero, 
that  there  was  nothing  that  would  be  denied  or  withheld  from 
him.  He  had  been  a  prisoner — not  only  of  the  Boers.  He 
felt  free,  and  every  hour  more  lighthearted ;  a  boy  again,  but 
happier  than  he  had  been  as  a  boy.  Then,  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, he  had  been  under  the  shadow  of  his  parents'  dif- 
ferences; now  he  was  going  back  into  sunshine.  Michael 
thought  no  better  of  him  because  he  obeyed  his  mother's  com- 
mands so  literally ;  he  could  sometimes  not  command  himself 
sufficiently  to  remain  with  him. 

"What  a  restless  fellow  you  are,"  Desmond  said  on  one 
of  these  occasions.  "  I'd  no  idea  you  were  like  that.  I  used 
to  look  upon  you  as  so  steady  and  staid.  It's  past  eleven, 
and  you  want  to  go  on  deck  again.  Can't  you  go  to  sleep? 
We've  had  a  good  old  jaw." 

As  the  ship  neared  Southampton  it  became  increasingly 
difficult  for  Michael  to  talk  with  Desmond  about  Marley  or  the 
future.    He  had  carried  out  all  Eunice's  wishes,  her  spoken 

232 


FULL  SWING  233 

and  unspoken  ones,  as  well  as  his  instructions  from  Lady 
Grindelay.  They  would  have  had  no  anxiety;  he  had  cabled 
from  Pretoria,  from  Cape  Town,  and  lastly  from  Madeira. 
They  knew  Desmond  was  better,  that  he  was  coming  to  them 
as  fast  as  steamer  could  carry  him. 

Michael  thought  they  would  be  met  at  Southampton,  that 
Eunice  might  be  there.  It  is  one  thing  to  carry  out  one's 
commission  faithfully,  another  to  see  the  girl  you  love  in 
another  man's  arms;  a  man  so  unworthy!  It  was  natural 
Michael  should  think  Desmond  unworthy  of  Eunice,  for  all 
the  glamour  of  his  wounds.  Michael  felt  he  could  never  have 
done  what  Desmond  had,  that  no  woman,  however  adroit, 
could  have  lured  him  to  infidelity  to  Eunice.  And  perhaps 
it  was  true.  The  difference  was  in  their  ages  and  tempera- 
ments, as  well  as  in  the  manner  of  their  quixotry — in  the 
Irish  as  opposed  to  the  Scottish  blood.  Desmond  talked  to 
everybody,  took  part  in  all  the  impromptu  gaieties  that  were 
got  up  on  board.  It  was  difficult  for  Michael  to  believe  this 
gay,  light-hearted  youngster  was  the  same  person  as  the 
invalided  soldier  with  his  arm  in  a  sling  whom  he  had  met  out- 
side the  hospital  tent  at  Waterval.  Michael  did  not  take  suffi- 
ciently into  account  the  fact  that  Desmond  had  been  a  pris- 
oner and  now  was  free.  He  was  drawing  long  breaths,  filling 
his  lungs  with  air,  unconsciously  rejoicing  in  the  strength 
that  was  returning  to  him,  not  reasoning  but  feeling.  All 
his  fetters  had  been  struck  off  at  one  blow. 

Tlie  sea  flung  its  spray  upon  the  deck  and  the  sun  shone. 
The  wind  was  a  following  one  and  helped  them  along.  The 
young  people  forgathered  and  behaved  as  young  people  do 
under  such  circumstances.  They  sometimes  danced  and  they 
sometimes  sang,  taking  a  lively  interest  in  one  another. 
Young  Lord  Grindelay  was  the  recipient  of  much  attention, 
and  he  was  no  anchorite  or  churl ;  he  had  nothing  of  Michael's 
stiffness. 

As  they  neared  their  destination  everj^one  began  to  talk  of 
"  home,"  to  search  the  horizon  for  coast-line  or  cliff.  It  was 
only  Michael  who  was  in  no  hurry.  He  thought  it  possible 
Eunice  might  be  at  Southampton,  and  he  knew  for  how  little 


234  FULL  SWING 

he  would  count  in  her  life  after  Desmond  had  been  restored 
to  her.  He  saw  those  days  of  rejoicing  at  Marley,  and  the 
wedding  that  would  so  quickly  follow.  He  alone  watched 
not  eagerly  for  cliff  and  coastline.  The  speeding  ship,  as  it 
cut  through  the  waters,  was  carrying  him  to  nothing  but  lone- 
liness. In  bringing  Desmond  home  he  was  doing  the  last 
thing  he  might  do  for  her. 

As  he  had  anticipated,  she  was  on  the  landing-stage,  wait- 
ing. He  saw  her  before  Desmond,  or  anybody  else,  could 
distinguish  one  face  from  another  in  the  crowd  that  stood 
on  the  quay  as  the  ship  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  moor- 
ings. Handkerchiefs  were  being  waved  and  there  was  shout- 
ing. The  last  hour  seemed  the  slowest  of  all  the  voyage. 
There  was  Eunice,  with  her  waving  handkerchief,  and  his 
father  with  her — two  familiar  figures.  He  pointed  them  out 
to  Desmond  presently,  when  he  could  command  himself. 
Together  he  and  Desmond  watched  them  coming  nearer  and 
nearer.  It  was  as  if  the  platform  was  moving,  and  not  the 
ship.  At  last  they  were  near  enough  for  the  recognition  to 
be  mutual.  When  the  stage  was  thrown  out,  Desmond  was 
the  first  to  step  upon  it.  All  that  Michael  had  feared  he  saw. 
There  was  no  holding  back,  no  concealment.  His  father  was 
wringing  his  own  hand,  welcoming  him.  But  Eunice — 
Eunice  was  in  Desmond's  arms.  They  stood  as  if  they  were 
alone.  He  could  see  that  it  seemed  to  both  of  them  as  if 
all  their  days  had  been  but  to  this  end. 

The  train  stood  still  in  the  station  whilst  luggage  and 
passengers  were  promiscuously  harried  and  delayed.  There 
were  other  people  in  the  compartment  with  them,  but  Michael 
saw  no  one  but  Eunice ;  the  gauze  twisted  round  her  hat,  her 
eyes  alight  and  dancing,  her  cheeks  flushed. 

"He  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  a  hero,"  she  said  gaily  to 
Michael,  whom  she  had  forgotten  to  greet.  "  I  don't  believe 
he  has  ever  been  as  ill  as  they  said." 

She  was  too  happy  to  be  serious.  Desmond  and  she  had 
hardly  spoken  to  each  other,  but  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms, 
his  lips  had  touched  her  cheek,  he  was  here.    It  was  not  her 


FULL  SWING  235 

lover,  but  her  cousin,  she  was  seeing  in  him  just  now,  the  boy 
with  whom  she  had  been  brought  up,  her  inseparable,  beloved 
companion. 

She  had  no  girlish  flutterings,  surrendering  to  his  kiss 
and  returning  it,  but  with  an  emotion  no  different  from  what 
it  would  have  been  had  she  been  his  sister.  This  was  Des- 
mond. It  did  not  go  beyond  that  for  the  moment.  All  the 
rest  was  to  come.  It  throbbed  in  her  heart  and  glistened  in 
her  eyes,  but  it  was  not  for  now.    She  was  full  of  excited  talk. 

"  Michael  has  nursed  me  like  a  brother,"  Desmond  told 
her.     She  even  forgot  to  thank  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  had  a  wonderful  time  out  there  ?  "  she 
said  to  Michael  almost  carelessly,  with  unconscious  cruelty. 
It  was  such  a  little  while  since  she  had  seen  Michael.  "  He 
was  dying  to  go,"  she  explained  to  Desmond,  turning  again  to 
him.  There  were  endless  things  she  had  to  say  to  him — 
endless. 

"  Aunt  Agatha  says  you  are  not  to  think  she  did  not  come 
to  Southampton  because  she  was  not  well  enough.  She  is 
ever  so  well ;  she  walked  to  the  village  yesterday.  She  won't 
come  to  the  station  either.  She's  waiting  for  you  at  the 
hotel.  We  are  staying  at  the  Buckingham  Palace.  We  are 
going  to  be  a  whole  fortnight  in  town.  She  said  you  were  sure 
to  want  clothes."    All  her  talk  was  for  Desmond. 

They  were  off  at  last.  The  guard  waved  his  green  flag, 
and  the  whistle  of  the  engine  was  shrill  and  loud.  All  the 
luggage  and  passengers  were  in,  and  their  compartment  was 
crowded;  suit-cases  and  portmanteaux  on  the  floor,  in  the 
overcrowded  racks,  everywhere;  umbrellas  and  rugs,  strapped 
together,  intruded  on  the  seats.  The  train  moved  slowly  out 
of  the  station.  It  was  no  moment  for  sentiment.  Yet  it 
was  the  only  time  when  Michael  became  an  individual  in  her 
eyes.  Desmond  was  standing  up  to  make  safe  the  many  pack- 
ages over  her  head,  and  she  had  time  to  see  Michael. 

"You  look  worse  than  Desmond,  Michael,  although  you 
were  not  in  the  war.    Have  you  been  sea-sick?" 

Desmond  dropped  into  his  seat  beside  her  again,  and  she 
did  not  even  wait  for  the  answer. 


236  FULL  SWING 

During  the  next  hour  and  a  half  Desmond  and  Eunice 
talked  to  each  other  in  eager  whispers,  and  Michael  heard  all 
the  office  news  from  his  father. 

"  I've  missed  you,  dear  boy,"  Andrew  said  affectionately. 
He,  too,  saw  that  Michael  was  not  looking  well.  "  You  have 
found  it  very  fatiguing,  I  dare  say."  Michael  admitted  to 
feeling  fatigued. 

"That  will  wear  off  in  a  day  or  two.  There  were  so 
many  new  impressions " 

He  spoke  carelessly,  but  his  father  was  scarcely  deceived. 
He  also  noted  the  two  in  the  corner,  their  eager  whisperings. 
Michael  listened  with  sufficient  interest  to  the  relation  of 
what  had  been  done  in  the  matter  of  Seeker  v.  Seeker,  and  at 
what  particular  phase  the  case  of  De  Plevens  v.  the  London 
and  North  Eastern  Eailway  had  arrived.  But  the  only  ques- 
tion he  put  was  hardly  one  of  business  at  all. 

"Is  Lady  Grindelay  really  quite  well  again?  You  say 
she  is  in  London." 

His  father  had  taken  to  spectacles ;  he  took  them  off  before 
he  answered: 

"  She  will  see  a  specialist  in  a  day  or  two.  Dr.  Reid  is 
coming  up  to  town  to  meet  him.  She  has  not  quite  recovered 
from  the  operation." 

"  Recurrence  ?  " 

"  There  seems  some  doubt.  But  she  wishes  Desmond  and 
everybody  to  believe  she  is  quite  well.  They  are  going  to 
give  him  a  big  reception  at  Marley — Desmond  and  all  the 
Marley  men  who  have  come  home.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  and 
the  Mayor  and  the  local  volunteers  are  to  be  present,  and  the 
place  will  be  decorated.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing.  If 
Agatha  is  well  or  ill,  whatever  verdict  the  specialist  has  for 
her,  nothing  is  to  be  discussed  or  known  until  after  Desmond 
has  gone  home  to  Marley  in  state.  After  that,  I  suppose  there 
will  be  the  wedding." 

He  relapsed  into  silence;  so  did  Michael.  But  Desmond 
and  Eunice  were  still  talking  animatedly. 

At  Waterloo  the  party  was  to  separate.  Desmond  sug- 
gested that  Michael  should  look  after  Eunice  whilst  he  col- 


FULL  SWING  237 

lected  the  luggage.  When  they  were  standing  alone  Eunice 
told  Michael  that  Desmond  could  not  say  enough  about  his 
kindness.    Michael  answered : 

"  You  told  me  to  bring  him  back  to  you." 

Eunice  glanced  at  him,  looked  away  again,  flushed,  under- 
stood. 

"  You  see  how  it  is/'  she  went  on  irresolutely ;  she  was 
sorry  for  Michael.    "  It  has  always  been  like  that." 

"  I  know." 

"  Desmond  and  I " 

"  I  know." 

"  He  has  not  altered.     You  don't  think  him  altered  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  just  the  same." 

Then  she  could  not  think  of  anything  more  to  say.  Des- 
mond seemed  a  long  time  with  the  luggage. 

"Auntie  will  be  getting  anxious,  the  train,  was  late  as 
it  is." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  see  if  I  can  find  him — 
hurry  him?" 

"  Oh,  no !  "  And  then  there  was  a  pause.  But  she  forced 
her  thoughts  away  from  Desmond,  and  set  herself  to  be  nice 
to  Michael.  Later  on,  when  they  had  all  calmed  down,  when 
she  had  become  used  to  having  Desmond  at  home  again,  and 
they  were  all  at  Marley,  there  were  many  things  she  would 
like  to  hear  from  Michael.  How  Desmond  had  been  found, 
and  what  his  brother  officers  said  of  him,  and  everything;  she 
knew  Desmond  would  never  talk  of  his  own  exploits. 

"  You'll  come  down  to  Marley  when  we  go  back  ?  "  she 
said,  in  the  effort  to  be  nice  to  him.  In  the  mirk  of  the 
railway  station  she  looked  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Poor 
Michael  could  hardly  bear  it. 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  I  will  come  to  Marley ;  at  least,  not 
just  yet.  You  haven't  forgotten  what  I  asked  you  in  New- 
quay, have  you  ?  I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  you  and  Desmond 
together." 

He  was,  oddly  enough,  suddenly  angry.  Of  what  did  she 
think  he  was  made  ?  But,  of  course,  she  had  not  been  thinking 
of  him  at  all. 


238  FULL  SWING 

"  You  are  angry  with  me  ?  "  she  said,  in  surprise. 

Michael  had  never  been  like  this  while  they  were  uncer- 
tain of  Desmond's  fate.  She  had  not  forgotten  what  he  said 
to  her  by  the  Gannell  Eiver ;  girls  do  not  forget  such  things. 
But  she  thought,  since  he  knew  about  her  and  Desmond,  he 
had  not  wished  that  either  of  them  should  remember.  Now 
his  manner  made  her  uncomfortable. 

"  Of  course  not."  But  he  said  it  stiffly,  with  difficulty 
and  an  absence  of  colour.  "  I  am  sorry  if  I  spoke  abruptly." 
For  he  saw  her  face  had  changed. 

What  he  had  in  his  mind  one  cannot  know  completely, 
but  it  may  have  seemed  possible  to  him,  even  then,  that  the 
future  might  hold  pain  for  her,  or  trouble.  Michael  thought 
Desmond  unstable. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you,  you  know  that," 
he  began  again. 

"  I  shall  always  be  glad  of  your  friendship,  of  course " 

She  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 

"  You  can  call  it  friendship  if  you  like,"  he  said  almost 
sullenly. 

"  I  wish  it  were  friendship.  Oh,  Michael,  can't  we  just  be 
friends  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  My  feelings  can  never  change,"  he  answered. 

She  moved  a  step  away  from  him,  then  nearer  again,  for 
she  did  not  want  to  be  unkind.  He  saw  that  she  looked  dis- 
tressed. 

"  I  know  you  don't  want  to  hear  it,"  he  went  on ;  "  that 
my  love  is  nothing  to  you,  Desmond's  everything.     But  a 

time  might  come "    He  broke  off.    "  And  if  ever  you  did 

want  help " 

"I  am  sure  you  would  do  anything  for  me,"  she  said 
hastily. 

"  You  will  never  forget  that,  will  you  ?  " 

He  saw  that  Desmond  was  coming  towards  them,  following 
a  porter  with  a  loaded  trunk. 

"  You  will  think  of  me  if  you  ever  need  help,  or,  or  a 
friend.  I  will  be  anything  to  you  that  you  wish.  I  shall  never 
alter,  I  shall  always  be  waiting." 


FULL  SWING  239 

"  Oh,  there  you  are ! "  Desmond's  voice  reached  them. 
"  Come  along,  I've  got  a  cab.  Your  father  has  got  your  things 
together.  Jolly  good  plan  your  having  them  marked  like 
that." 

Desmond  hurried  Eunice  away,  Michael  had  to  look  for 
and  find  his  father. 

"  What  was  it  he  was  saying  to  you  ? "  Desmond  asked 
her  when  they  were  in  the  cab.  But  he  did  not  wait  for  the 
answer.    He  was  looking  at  her,  and  said  all  at  once : 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  " 

Then  he  took  her  hand,  and  Michael  might  never  have 
existed  at  all  for  either  of  them. 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  all  that  slow  way  from  Waterloo 
to  the  Buckingham  Palace  Hotel.  But  they  hardly  said  a 
word  except  "  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  "  They  seemed  to  have  a 
complete  understanding  of  each  other,  although  nothing  had 
been  said  of  more  moment  than  that.  He  had  kissed  her 
when  he  came  off  the  boat,  but  it  had  been  her  cheek  and  not 
her  lips  that  he  had  taken.  Now  they  sat  hand  in  hand  and 
felt  how  wonderful  it  was. 

Lady  Grindelay  met  them  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel.  She 
had  been  watching  for  their  cab  to  drive  up,  and  now  stood 
in  the  hall. 

"  Here  he  is,  auntie !  Did  you  think  we  were  never 
coming  ?  " 

"  I  was  content  to  wait." 

Desmond  thought  her  unaltered,  saw  no  reflection  in  her 
of  his  own  agitation.  He  had  a  rush  of  feeling  as  he  kissed 
her,  remembering  all  she  had  done  for  him.  He  flung  his 
arms  about  her. 

"  Mother,  darling ! " 

She  adjusted  her  cap,  and  said : 

"  You  are  as  impetuous  as  ever,  I  see." 

That  was  all  she  said,  and  yet  she  was  much  more  moved 
than  he,  the  mere  sight  of  him  was  a  vision  of  splendour, 
almost  incredible,  blinding  in  its  effulgence;  the  touch  of  his 
yoimg  lips  on  her  cheeks  sent  fire  through  her,  stopping  lier 
breath. 


340  FULL  SWING 

They  went  up  in  the  lift,  leaving  the  luggage  to  follow. 
She  remembered  to  tell  the  hall  porter  to  pay  the  cab.  Des- 
mond said  hastily  he  had  plenty  of  change.  He  was  thrown 
back  upon  himself,  chilled  by  her  reception. 

The  lift  took  them  up  to  the  sitting-room,  and  Desmond 
saw  that  it  was  full  of  flowers.  Reynolds,  his  mother's  in- 
comparable maid,  came  out  of  the  bedroom  and  said  a  respect- 
ful word  of  welcome. 

"  The  flowers  came  up  from  Marley  after  you  left,"  Lady 
Grindelay  said  to  Eunice. 

"  I  hope  you  haven't  been  tiring  yourself  arranging  them." 

"No;  Reynolds  did  that." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Not  until  after  dinner  did  mother  and  son  get  any  nearer. 
Before  Eunice  left  them  together  they  talked  only  of  the 
war.  Desmond  was  modest,  as  Eunice  had  expected,  about 
his  own  exploits,  but  her  eyes  glowed  when  he  told  of  gallant 
actions  he  had  seen  or  of  which  he  had  been  told.  Her  eyes 
glowed,  but  presently  her  cheeks  paled,  and  her  aunt  said  the 
girl  looked  tired  and  should  go  to  bed  early.  Eunice's  imagi- 
nation realised  these  scenes  he  was  depicting;  she  saw  him 
in  the  forefront  of  them  all.  How  wonderful  that  he  should 
be  here,  talking  of  it,  restored  to  her!  Throb  after  throb 
of  thanksgiving  made  her  colour  come  and  go  emotionally. 

"It's  impossible  to  think  you  will  be  here  in  the  morn- 
ing," she  said,  with  a  laugh  that  had  a  sob,  when,  in  obedience 
to  Lady  Grindelay's  suggestion,  she  rose  to  go. 

"To-morrow  morning,  and  all  the  other  mornings,"  Des- 
mond answered  in  a  tone  that  matched  her  own. 

They  were  all  a  little  constrained.  Eunice  kissed  her 
aunt,  and  gave  her  hand  to  Desmond. 

"  Good  night." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"I  am  sure  you  must  be  too  tired  for  any  more  talk," 
v^as  the  first  thing  his  mother  said  when  they  were  alone. 

"  I  am  not  tired  at  all.    But  you — ought  you  not  to  rest  ?  " 

"I  am  tired  of  resting.  I  shall  have  time  enough  for 
resting." 

She  had  so  much  to  say  to  him,  and  such  a  difficulty  in 
saying  it.  There  had  been  nothing  but  misunderstanding  be- 
tween them,  and  now  all  was  to  be  made  clear.  She  would 
give  him  Eunice,  let  him  see  that  she  was  proud  of  him  and 
the  reputation  he  had  made.  It  was  difficult.  Easy  perhaps 
to  make  up  her  mind  that  it  had  to  be  done,  but  almost  im- 
16  241 


242  FULL  SWING 

possible  to  do  it.  There  was  no  intimacy  between  them. 
There  had  always  been  something  to  keep  them  apart.  When 
she  had  thought  him  dead  she  wanted  only  his  forgiveness. 
She  craved  more  than  that  now,  a  son's  love  she  would  have 
from  him,  but  thought  it  beyond  her  reach.  She  had  ever 
shown  herself  cold  and  unloving  to  him.  Even  now  she  could 
not  voice  what  she  felt  at  his  return,  her  pride  in  him.  She 
could  only  sit  erect  and  drop  out  her  words  as  if  they  were  of 
little  importance.     Outwardly  she  was  little  altered. 

"I  did  not  want  you  to  go  to  bed  to-night,  your  first 
night  in  England,  without  knowing  that  you  are  quite  free 
as  regards  Eunice."  The  next  sentence  came  more  slowly: 
"I  know  that  I  misjudged  you.  ..." 

He  was  confused,  anxious  to  avoid  anything  in  the  nature 
of  a  scene.  But  not  as  unloving  as  she  thought  him.  He 
had  always  known  he  cared  for  her,  and  now  he  would  have 
liked  to  tell  her  so. 

"  You  didn't  misjudge  me.  I  made  an  awful  fool  of 
myself." 

He  came  nearer  to  her.  But  she  sat  quite  erect,  and  he 
thought  she  seemed  to  wish  to  keep  the  distance  between  them. 

''We  have  agreed — haven't  we? — that  that  particular  in- 
cident is  to  be  forgotten." 

"  I — I  can't  quite  forget  it,"  he  said  huskily. 

"That  is  the  one  thing  I  must  ask  of  you."  Then  she 
went  on  less  steadily :  "  You  will  promise  me  that,  will  you 
not  ?  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  less  than  a  hero  in  her  eyes,  in 
anyone's  eyes."  In  a  lower  voice  she  added :  "  I  want  your 
happiness  to  be  untroubled,  complete."    She  stopped. 

Desmond  was  greatly  moved. 

"  I  am  not  fit  for  her,"  he  broke  out. 

She  had  that  throb  of  pride,  that  passionate  contradic- 
tion, but  no  words  to  tell  him  of  it.  Eunice  no  longer  counted 
in  comparison. 

"  She  need  never  know  that,"  was  all  she  could  get  out. 

"  I  will  do  anyihing  you  say,  mother."  He  felt  the  ten- 
sion behind  her  limited  words  and  began  to  speak  agitatedly. 


FULL  SWING  243 

"  You  know  how  I  regret  everytliing,  everything  I  have  ever 
done  to  vex  you.  Mother,  can't  we  be  different  together?" 
he  said,  rather  desperately. 

Poor  stiff-tongued  Agatha !  She  put  out  her  hand  to  him 
uncertainly  and  he  took  it  in  his. 

"I  hope  everything  will  be  different,"  she  said. 

How  could  he  guess  that  under  her  breast  her  breath 
came  as  if  her  heart  was  but  a  bruise  beneath  it,  that  to 
solace  her  pain  he  had  but  to  lay  his  head  there  and  say: 
"I  love  you,  mother.  Put  your  hand  on  my  head  and  say 
3^ou  love  me,  too.    I've  longed  to  do  it  so  often." 

He  kissed  the  hand  that  lay  in  his  hurriedly,  half  ashamed, 
and  she  withdrew  it,  a  faint  flush  on  her  old  cheeks. 

"  I'll  try  to  do  everything  you  say.  If  Eunice's  happiness 
depends  on  me,  I'll  try  to  be  what  you  both  wish  me.  If  you 
think  she  ought  not  to  know,  I  won't  tell  her.  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  right " 

"There  are  stories  girls  may  not  hear,  temptations  of 
M-liich  one  must  not  speak  to  them." 

"I  should  hate  to  tell  her.  So  if  you  really  think  she 
ought  not  to  know " 

"I  am  sure  it  is  unnecessary  for  her  to  know  of  these 
temptations,  of  any  evil,"  she  said  with  agitation.  "We 
women,  wives,  are  best  left  ignorant ^" 

"  I'll  make  her  happy,  I  know  I  can  make  her  happy."  His 
face  flushed  and  he  spoke  huskily.  "But  you?  Is  there 
nothing  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy."  She  wanted  him  to  love  her, 
but  that  she  could  not  say.  "  You  will  care  for  Marley, 
hold  your  inheritance  as  a  trust,  remember  you  are  a  Wan- 
stead?  .  .  ." 

But  he  did  not  want  to  hear  of  his  inheritance,  nor  she 
to  talk  to  him  of  what  would  happen  when  she  was  gone. 
Something  of  his  happiness  she  wanted  to  see,  to  stay  and  see. 

"  I  know  now  what  a  suitable  and  appropriate  thing  a 
marriage  between  you  and  Eunice  will  be.  I  want  to  see  your 
unclouded  happiness " 


244  FULL  SWING 

Her  maimer  touched  him,  that  change  of  which  Michael 
had  spoken  was  so  obvious,  and  yet  not  complete. 

"  And  everything  between  us  two  will  be  different  ?  " 
"  I  hope  so." 

Everything  between  them  was  different,  although  without 
words  or  caresses  to  establish  the  change.  Eeynolds,  that 
wonderful,  understanding  maid,  knew  that  if  a  wrap  were 
needed.  Lady  Grindelay  liked  her  son  to  lay  it  across  her 
shoulders.  Then,  when  Desmond  came  into  the  room  to  bid 
her  good  morning  or  good  night  she  detained  him  as  long  as 
possible,  and  when  he  was  in  the  room  with  her,  her  eyes 
dwelt  .upon  him.  Eunice  now  took  second  place.  Eunice  knew 
this,  and  Desmond  too,  vaguely.  He  kissed  his  mother  night 
and  morning,  asked  how  she  had  slept  or  how  she  felt,  brought 
her  roses  and  was  awkward  when  she  thanked  him.  "  As  if  I 
could  ever  do  enough  for  you !  " 

"  But  I  have  done  so  little  for  you." 

In  a  way  their  positions  were  reversed,  she  felt  she  was  in 
his  debt,  dwelt  all  the  time  upon  her  sins  of  omission,  and 
tried  to  make  up  to  him  for  them. 

The  fortnight  in  London  passed  very  quickly.  The  war 
was  by  no  means  at  an  end.  De  Wet  and  liis  guerilla  troops 
had  begun  to  prove  it. 

"  I  never  should  have  come  home  if  you  had  not  sent  for 
me,"  Desmond  told  his  mother. 

"  You  are  content  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Eather,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

Agatha,  too,  was  content,  although  the  report  of  the 
specialist  had  not  been  too  favourable,  and  already  there  were 
disquieting  symptoms.  No  one  but  herself  and  Dr.  Keid 
knew  this,  and  it  was  to  be  kept  from  everyone  else. 

After  Desmond  had  sat  with  his  mother,  visited  his  tailor, 
done  the  hundred  and  one  little  things  demanded  of  him  by 
friends  or  circumstances,  he  was  free  for  long  hours  with 
Eunice.  They  were  neither  of  them  London  bred  or  bom, 
and  they  found  it  a  delightful  place  for  wandering.     They 


FULL  SWING  245 

were  sufficiently  unsophisticated  to  find  the  Zoological  Grar- 
dens  entrancing,  and  Hyde  Park  a  never  ending  delight. 
They  visited  the  museums  and  the  National  Gallery,  and  did 
not  even  disdain  Westminster  Abbey  and  St.  Paul's.  Lady 
Grindelay  saw  no  reason  why  they  should  not  go  to  the  the- 
atre together,  and  many  evenings  were  spent  at  the  play.  She 
put  forward  no  claim  to  their  companionship,  happy  in  their 
happiness,  wishful  only  to  add  to  it.  She  did  not  want  them 
to  see  or  notice  into  what  invalid  ways  she  was  growing. 
Everybody  was  in  the  conspiracy  to  keep  them  from  know- 
ing ;  Dr.  Keid  and  Andrew,  and  above  all,  Eeynolds. 

"  She's  had  a  tiring  morning,  people  coming  in  and  out, 
letters  to  write,"  Eeynolds  would  tell  them,  "  perhaps  it  would 
be  better  to  let  her  have  a  sleep  after  lunch.  I'll  tell  her  you 
came  in  to  see  her." 

There  was  always  some  excuse  or  good  reason  why  Lady 
Grindelay  should  be  allowed  to  rest.  Neither  of  the  young 
folks  ever  saw  her  during  the  attacks  of  pain  that  were  return- 
ing with  alarming  frequency.  She  always  seemed  well  enough 
to  sit  up  to  dinner,  to  question  them  as  to  what  they  had  seen 
or  heard,  to  be  interested. 

'^  She  looks  at  you  all  the  time,"  Eunice  told  Desmond, 
"  I  hardly  count  with  her  now." 

"You  are  not  jealous?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am.  I  always  knew  you 
would  understand  each  other  one  day." 

But  she  and  Desmond  understood  each  other  even  better. 
They  knew  they  were  never  to  be  separated  again.  The 
flaming,  inevitable  moment  had  not  come  yet,  but  it  was 
always  in  the  background,  warming  and  exhilarating  the  days. 
They  talked  of  their  intimacy,  sometimes  Desmond  had  a 
sudden  qualm  of  misgiving. 

"  We  have  never  really  been  apart  except  that  horrid  war 
time  and  when  you  were  a  prisoner.  Tell  me  about  it  again. 
I  hate  there  to  be  anything  you  have  seen  and  done  that  I 
haven't  shared,"  Eunice  said,  more  than  once.  "  We  seem 
to  have  been  always  together  except  then." 

He  told  her  of  the  red  and  rolling  veldt,  of  sunsets  over 


246  FULL  SWING 

lonely  farms,  of  dust  and  the  whizzing  of  bullets.  He  told 
her  of  long  and  lonely  marches,  of  brave  men  and  blunders, 
sniping  shot  that  reached  its  billet,  and  of  empty  saddle.  He 
told  her  of  the  hospital  at  Waterval;  could  speak  to  her, 
although  with  difficulty,  of  Jimmy  Thwaites  and  Elphie. 

"I  seem  to  see  it  all  as  clearly  as  if  I  had  been  there. 
We'll  make  Jimmy  come  to  Marley,  won't  we?  He  can  be 
wheeled  about  the  grounds.    We  could  take  him  on  the  river." 

"  Eather !  He's  with  his  people  now,  but  they  are  not  very 
well  off.    I'd  like  to  do  something  for  him,  look  after  him." 

She  pressed  his  arm.  "  So  would  I.  We  always  want  the 
same  thing,  don't  we  ?  " 

***** 

There  came  an  hour  when  speech  between  them  grew  a 
little  frayed  or  fretted.  They  had  had  a  long  day  together, 
there  were  only  two  more  before  they  would  be  again  at 
Marley.  Eunice  knew  of  the  welcome  that  awaited  Des- 
mond, but  the  preparations  were  being  kept  a  secret  from 
him.  He  could  never  agree  that  he  had  done  anything  de- 
serving of  admiration  in  letting  his  men  be  cut  up,  in  refus- 
ing to  surrender.  He  was  very  silent  about  the  whole  episode, 
not  caring  to  hear  it  alluded  to.  He  knew  what  had  lain  at 
the  back  of  his  courage,  why  he  had  been  so  ready  to  give  up 
his  life.  He  was  trying  to  forget,  but  it  was  not  easy.  Eunice's 
happy  confidence  that  she  knew  everything  about  him  some- 
times sent  a  qualm  through  him.  He  could  not  talk  of  the 
Waterval  hospital  and  forget  Gabrielle  had  been  there,  nor  of 
Cape  Town,  without  seeing  her  go  out  of  the  door  of  the  hotel 
with  undraped  shoulders,  laughing  and  talking  with  her  com- 
panion.   He  did  not  want  to  remember,  but  he  did. 

"I  think  we  shall  have  to  leave  off  talking  about  South 
Africa,"  he  said  when  they  drove  back  to  the  hotel  that  after- 
noon. '■'  I  was  so  far  away  from  you,  desperately  home-sick 
at  times,  not  very  happy.  I'd  like  to  forget  it  sometimes  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"  And  I  have  been  talking  of  notliing  else  all  day." 


FULL  SWING  247 

"  I  know.  And  just  begun  again/'  She  was  surprised  to 
see  how  nearly  irritable  he  was. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  so  before?"  she  exclaimed. 
If  he  did  not  care  to  talk  about  South  Africa,  of  course,  they 
would  talk  of  other  things.  But  she  could  not  think  of  many 
others  at  dinner  time,  and  it  was  her  aunt's  favourite  topic  too. 

Desmond  could  not  escape  all  the  consequences  of  his 
sobriquet,  and  the  story  that  had  been  in  all  the  newspapers. 
He  was  lionised  a  little,  invited  out  to  dinner,  made  rather  a 
fuss  of.  He  refused  as  many  invitations  as  his  mother  would 
allow.  But  when  their  own  friends  made  a  point  of  his  pres- 
ence at  this  or  the  other  entertainment,  when  Eunice  was 
invited  with  him,  and  there  seemed  no  reasonable  excuse  that 
he  should  stay  away,  Lady  Grindelay  pointed  out  to  him  that 
he  must  not  get  a  reputation  for  exclusiveness  or  eccentricity. 

"  You  will  have  to  take  your  place  in  Society  when  we  go 
back  to  Marley.  There  is  a  certain  duty  we  owe  to  our  neigh- 
bours. You  will  have  both  to  dispense  and  receive  hospi- 
tality; it  has  always  been  expected  of  us,  and  I  think  fulfilled. 

I  have  not  given  balls,  but ^"    And  she  told  of  garden  and 

dinner  parties,  fetes,  and  when  the  gardens  had  been  illu- 
minated. Some  of  these  entertainments  both  Eunice  and 
Desmond  could  remember. 

To-night,  therefore,  because  Lady  Grindelay  thought  it 
the  right  thing,  they  were  going  to  a  dance,  a  dance  got  up  in 
Desmond's  honour  by  the  Fevershams.  The  Fevershams  had 
a  house  in  Great  Marley,  although  they  were  in  London  now. 
They  were  not  exactly  County,  but  Mrs.  Feversham  was  a 
distant,  very  distant,  cousin  of  their  nearest  neighbours,  the 
Campdens. 

Desmond  thought  he  had  never  seen  Eunice  look  prettier 
than  she  did  to-night,  in  the  white  evening  frock,  with  the 
string  of  pearls  round  her  neck,  and  her  fair  hair  snooded 
with  its  blue  ribbon.  He  could  not  make  out  what  had  made 
him  suddenly  irritable  or  impatient  with  her  a  little  while 
ago,  he  was  now  full  of  remorse. 

When  they  were  in  the  brougham,  on  the  way  to  the  Fever- 
shams, he  began  to  tell  her  so. 


248  FULL  SWING 

"  I  was  rather  a  brute  this  afternoon,  wasn't  I  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  j^ou  were  not.  How  many  dances  are  we 
going  to  have  together  ?  Auntie  says  we  are  not  to  make  our- 
selves too  conspicuous." 

"  Do  you  want  to  dance  with  anyone  else  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  don't." 

He  had  never  actually  asked  her  to  marry  him.  Now 
suddenly  he  felt  he  must  make  sure.  He  put  out  his  hand  to 
possess  himself  of  hers. 

"  You  don't  want  to  dance  with  anybody  but  me  ?  " 

*'  Our  steps  go  so  well  together." 

"  I  wasn't  tliinking  only  of  that." 

"  You're  crushing  my  dress ;  can't  you  move  a  little  ?  "  He 
did  not  stir.    "  You  are  not  cross  again  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  cross,  I'm  impatient,  that's  all." 

"  To  get  to  the  Fevershams  ?  "  But  she  knew  better,  for  all 
the  innocent  way  she  said  it,  and  her  heart  beat  a  little  faster. 

"  I  don't  care  if  we  never  get  there  at  all." 

"  But  I  look  so  nice.    You  told  me  yourself  I  looked  nice." 

*'  You  look  like  an  angel.  But  I'm  not  sure  I  want  anyone 
else  to  see  it." 

She  laughed  happily. 

"  Auntie  will  want  to  know  if  anyone  took  any  notice  of 
me.  I  believe  she  thinks  I  am  a  little  country-cousinish  to 
go  about  with  you.  It  is  you  everybody  really  wants,  not  me. 
You  will  have  to  be  introduced  to  all  sorts  of  people  to-night. 
Do  you  want  me  to  sit  in  a  corner  all  by  myself  whilst  you 
are  dancing  and  being  lionised  ?  " 

*'  I  don't  want  to  be  lionised." 

They  were  already  in  Eaton  Square.  The  sound  of  the 
string  band  came  to  them.  Eunice  was  young  enough  and 
gay  enough  at  heart  to  feel  the  call  of  the  music. 

"  You'll  have  to  wait  until  we  get  inside,  you  know." 

He  saw  her  eyes  dancing,  and  that  her  feet  wanted  to 
emulate  them. 

In  another  five  minutes  his  arm  was  round  her  waist  and 
there  was  not  a  handsomer  couple  in  the  room.  The  mere 
joy  of  the  valse  filled  her,  and  they  were  exquisitely  in  step. 


FULL  SWING  249 

"  I  haven't  forgotten  how  to  dance,  have  I  ?  " 

"  We  couldn't  be  better  together." 

To-night,  to-night  he  knew  he  would  tell  her  what  he 
wanted  of  her.  She  must  be  his  wife  as  soon  as  possible.  He 
could  not  wait  any  longer.  She  was  fond  of  him,  but  he 
wanted  more.  His  blood  was  tumultuous  to-night,  and  she 
was  so  cool  and  smiling. 

"  Don't  hold  me  so  close,"  she  breathed,  for  his  hold  had 
tightened  suddenly. 

"  I  shall  hold  you  as  close  as  I  like,"  he  answered,  disobey- 
ing her.     She  laughed  lightly. 

"  I'm  out  of  breath." 

One  last  turn  and  it  was  over ;  they  were  in  the  stream  of 
the  others  going  towards  the  refreshment  room. 

"  You  want  an  ice  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.    I  want  to  sit  down." 

"  We'll  find  a  place."  Her  hand  was  on  his  arm.  "  Come 
in  here." 

"  Here "  was  a  conservatory  full  of  exotic  plants  and 
palms,  chairs  arranged  in  twos,  many  of  them  occupied.  Now 
she  no  longer  held  his  arm  but  followed  where  he  piloted  her. 
When  they  were  in  the  shadow  of  the  deepest  greenery,  he 
stopped  abruptly.  They  were  really  alone  for  the  moment, 
their  pulses  throbbing  from  the  dance. 

"  I  can't  let  you  dance  with  anyone  else  to-night,"  he  said 
unevenly;  and  then  put  his  arms  about  her.  She  stood  in 
his  embrace,  hex  heart  beating,  strangely  excited.  "  You  know 
why,  tell  me  you  know  why  ?  "  But  she  did  not  speak  and 
he  went  on :  "  I  know  you're  fond  of  me.  How  fond  are  you  ? 
That's  the  question."  His  arms  tightened  about  her  and  she 
went  a  little  pale.  "  Do  you  love  me  better  than  anything 
in  the  world ;  as  I  love  you  ?  "  He  sought  her  lips  now,  and 
she  yielded  them  to  him  at  first,  but  then  would  have  drawn 
back,  resisting.    He  would  not  let  her  go,  startling  her. 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  You  often  say  we  understand 
each  other.  I  want  you  for  my  wife,  my  wife."  He  strained 
her  again  to  him.  She  put  out  a  tremulous,  restraining  hand 
and  went  paJe. 


250  FULL  SWING 

"  What  a  brute  I  am !  I'm  frightening  you.  You  don't 
know  how  I  feel  to-night,  how  I've  been  feeling  all  day.  I'll 
be  gentle — don't  be  frightened.  Darling !  But  kiss  me.  Oh ! 
my  darling,  darling ;  how  I've  longed  for  you  !  " 

"  You  do  love  me  ?  "  he  asked  hungrily, 

"  I  have  always  loved  you." 

"  You  couldn't  dance  with  anyone  else  to-night,  nor  have 
anyone  else's  arm  round  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"You  imderstand  now  how  I  love  you?"  He  held  her 
close.  "  I  love  you  in  every  way,  in  ways  you  don't  dream  of. 
I'm  desperate  because  I  know  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you. 
But  you'd  forgive  me  anything,  wouldn't  you?  That  is  the 
sort  of  way  you  care  for  me,  isn't  it?  Say  it  is;  that  it 
wouldn't  matter  what  I  did."  His  lips  seemed  insatiable  for 
hers. 

She  thought  he  meant  that  it  would  not  matter  what  he 
did  to  her.  She  muttered  that  she  did  not  care  what  he  did. 
She  wanted  to  run  away  from  him,  yet  to  stay  with  him,  to 
hide  her  head,  and  to  go  on  looking  at  him,  to  feel  his  arms 
about  her.  She  wanted  him  to  know  how  she  loved  him,  then 
her  cheeks  crimsoned,  her  eyes  were  lowered,  and  she  was 
ashamed  of  the  flooding  crimson  of  her  love  for  him. 

"  It  will  never  the  same  between  us  again,"  he  whispered. 
"  Not  after  this." 

It  would  never  be  the  same.  And  yet  she  felt  that  it  had 
never  been  different,  although  so  deep  down. 

"  Tell  me  again  that  you  love  me." 

« I— I  can't  talk." 

Neither  could  he.  He  laid  his  lips  on  hers  again.  What 
was  so  wonderful  was  that  this  Desmond  was  still  the  other 
one,  her  brother  and  companion,  her  intimate. 

"  You  did  not  always  love  me  like  this  ?  "  she  said  f alter- 
ingly. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  but  I  held  myself  back.  You  were  little 
more  than  a  child.    You  are  still  so  young,  and  innocent,  and 


FULL  SWING  251 

ignorant.  Oh,  Eunice,  my  love,  my  little  love,  I  wish  I  had 
never  been  away  from  you,"  he  cried.  He  wished  he  could 
have  come  to  her  as  she  to  him.  "If  only  I  were  more  worthy 
of  you,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  we  should  not  have  known  how  we  cared  for 
each  other  if  we'd  always  been  together,"  she  said.  She 
spoke  low,  and  the  flush  was  lovely  in  her  cheeks  and  glowing 
eyes.  What  had  flamed  between  them  had  made  everything 
dift'erent,  it  was  as  if  she  had  come  into  a  fortune,  the  future 
was  golden  with  promise. 

"  I've  always  known  of  it,"  he  answered. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  drawing-room,  Desmond  was 
impatient  of  the  people  who  spoke  to  him,  who  wanted  to 
shake  him  by  the  hand,  and  tell  him  what  they  thought  of 
him ;  he  wanted  to  do  nothing  but  sit  beside  Eunice,  or  dance 
with  her. 

"  I  wish  we  were  in  the  conservatory  again." 

But  she  had  got  back  something  of  her  self-possession,  for 
all  that  she  was  so  gloriously  happy.  Her  lips  throbbed  from 
his  kisses,  and  her  shoulders  were  warm  where  his  arms  had 
lain,  but  she  was  not  Agatha's  niece  for  nothing,  she  knew 
how  to  behave. 

"  You  must  not  stay  here,  everybody  wants  to  talk  to  you," 
she  told  him. 

"  Do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  ?  " 

"  We  have  all  our  lives  before  us,"  she  answered  happily. 

"  They  won't  be  long  enough." 

"But  Just  to-night,  because  auntie  will  want  to  hear  of 
everything,  you  must  not  stay  beside  me.  The  party  was 
given  for  you.    Go  and  be  congratulated,  made  a  hero  of '^ 

"  I've  nothing  to  be  congratulated  upon  except  that  you 
care  for  me." 

"  We  ought  to  pretend." 

"  We  ought  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Auntie  would  not  like  us  to  make  ourselves  conspicuous." 

"As  if  you  wouldn't  be  conspicuous  anyhow.  Don't  you 
know  how  pretty  you  are  ?  " 

"Am  I?" 


252  FULL  SWING 

"  Are  you  ?    Don't  you  know  you  are  ?  " 
"  I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"Come  along;  they  are  striking  up  again.  I  must  have 
one  more  dance." 

4:  «  ^  4:  « 

In  the  brougham  going  home  he  said  that  he  wanted  her 
to  marry  him  as  soon  as  it  could  be  arranged. 

"  I  don't  feel  sure  of  you.    So  many  tilings  might  happen." 

"  What  could  happen  ?  " 

"You  might  change  your  mind,  take  a  sudden  dislike  to 
me." 

"  Haven't  I  known  you  all  my  life  ?  " 

"  But  you  didn't  know  this." 

She  answered  him  low,  when  her  lips  were  free,  when  he 
would  listen,  that  in  a  way  she  too  had  always  known  it.  She 
let  him  see  right  into  her  pure,  yet  passionate  heart.  She 
might  not  know  all  the  song  of  love;  but  she  was  familiar 
with  the  melody,  for  it  had  sung  between  them  always. 

"  You  don't  know  all  that  love  means,  love  like  ours, 
he  whispered. 

He  could  make  her  blush  and  edge  away  from  him;  he 
could  lure  her  back  until  she  lay  again  close  folded  in  the 
shelter  of  his  arms.  But  he  could  not  make  her  falter  in  her 
belief  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  learn  of  her  love  for  him. 

"  I  knew  you  were  not  dead,  I  felt  you  were  alive  all  the 
time.  I  told  auntie  I  should  know  if  anything  had  happened 
to  you.  I  am  so  much  more  intimate  with  you  than  she  has 
ever  been,  I  know  all  you  do  and  even  think " 

He  was  quieter  after  she  had  said  that,  he  did  not  even 
kiss  her  again.  She  ought  to  be  told.  He  had  no  doubt  she 
ought  to  be  told.  She  did  not  know  all  he  had  done,  nor  all 
that  had  led  up  to  his  folly.  He  could  not  tell  her  now; 
but  even  now  he  wished  that  she  knew.  He  had  got  to  that 
already.  He  wished  he  had  not  agreed  to  silence.  He  knew 
that  one  day  he  would  ask  his  mother  to  release  him  from  his 
promise.    But  not  yet,  not  until  Eunice  was  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"  Mother,  you  won't  make  us  wait  ?  "  Desmond  asked  when 
he  told  his  news.  Lady  Grindelay  no  longer  felt  jealousy,  and 
as  for  misgiving,  it  was  impossible.  She  could  see  no  fault 
in  him, 

"  Only  sufficient  time  to  make  proper  preparations,"  she 
answered. 

"  Must  there  be  a  fuss  ?  " 

"  We  have  our  duty  to  our  neighbours,"  she  said  again. 
"  The  Wansteads  of  Marley  cannot  get  married  as  if  they 
were  the  Joneses  of  Nowhere." 

But  she  was  almost  as  anxious  as  he,  for  she  knew  that  her 
days  might  be  few.  But  that  was  a  small  matter.  There 
would  be  Wansteads  of  Marley  for  all  time,  and  everything 
had  come  right.  Desmond  would  keep  up  the  hot-houses, 
she  made  him  promise  that,  and  build  more  cottages.  He 
would  have  promised  anything. 

"  You  will  be  satisfied  if  I  can  arrange  the  date  a  month 
from  to-day  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  I'd  be  better  satisfied  if  it  were  a  week." 

"  Give  me  a  little  time.  Let  me  arrange  matters  properly 
for  you."    He  kissed  her. 

*'  Of  course,  I  know  you'll  do  your  best  for  me,  mother 
darling." 

And  the  "  Mother  darling "  showed  how  everything  had 
changed  between  them,  the  kiss  too.  He  had  got  to  know  tliat 
his  caresses,  though  never  invited,  were  nevertheless  not  un- 
welcome to  her.  To-morrow  they  were  all  going  down  to 
Marley  together.  She  knew  what  awaited  him  there,  and  lay 
in  bed  all  that  day  to  rest  herself  for  the  coming  emotion  and 
fatigue. 

"  You  and  Eunice  must  amuse  each  other  to-day.  Rey- 
nolds won't  let  me  get  up.  Reynolds  is  growing  into  a 
tyrant.  I  have  given  in  to  her  too  much,  but  I  will  change 
all  that  when  we  get  back  to  Marley." 

253 


254  FULL  SWING 

Desmond  thought  she  remained  in  bed  because  she  wanted 
to  leave  the  sitting-room  of  the  hotel  free  for  them,  it  was  a 
wet  day  and  they  did  not  need  to  go  out. 

At  Marley  great  preparations  were  being  made.  Andrew 
came  up  to  the  hotel  in  the  afternoon  and  told  her  all  the 
details.  Already  the  town  was  decorated,  and  the  village  gay 
with  bunting;  triumphal  arches  had  been  erected  and  the 
carriage  would  be  drawn  up  to  the  Court  by  men,  not  horses. 

"He  knows  nothing  about  it?"  Andrew  asked. 

"  Nothing  definite.  I  think  a  liint  may  have  reached  him, 
for  he  suggested  just  now  we  should  go  by  the  morning  instead 
of  the  afternoon  train." 

Then  she  told  her  good  news. 

"We  planned  and  planned,  like  fools.  But  Providence 
planned  better." 

Andrew  did  not  think  they  had  planned  like  fools,  Michael 
would  have  made  a  good  husband  to  the  girl,  and  looked  after 
the  estate. 

"  She  will  never  know  anything  of  that  episode  in  his  life," 
Agatha  went  on  contentedly. 

"  You  still  think  that  wise?  " 

"You  should  see  their  happiness  together.  Then  you 
would  not  question  the  wisdom.  If  she  thought  she  had  not 
always  been  first  with  him " 

"  But  supposing  it  came  out  ?  " 

"  It  never  will  come  out.  The  woman  was  well  paid,  she 
has  nothing  to  gain  by  revealing  it.  Besides,  they  will  settle 
down  at  Marley.    She  will  never  seek  him  out  there." 

Lady  Grindelay  was  impatient  of  a  doubt  cast  upon  the 
wisdom  of  her  decision,  and  Andrew  had  no  desire  to  vex  her. 
She  told  him  of  Desmond's  wish,  and  her  own,  that  there 
should  be  no  undue  delay,  and  gave  him  promptly,  and  as  if 
she  had  it  all  cut  and  dried,  the  instructions  for  settlements. 
Desmond  must,  of  course,  be  master  of  the  estate,  but  Eunice 
was  to  have  her  jointure. 

"  You  seem  to  have  thought  it  well  over.'' 

Andrew  was  struck  by  her  precision,  by  the  clearness  of 
her  instructions. 


FULL  SWING  255 

"  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  since  I  knew  he  had  been 
found." 

They  went  dovra  to  Marley  the  next  day.  In  the  train 
Lady  Grindelay  told  Desmond  something  of  what  he  might 
expect  on  his  arrival,  she  did  not  wish  him  to  be  wholly  un- 
prepared. He  had  been  already  struck  by  the  number  of 
Marley  faces  he  had  seen  on  the  platform  at  Paddington,  and 
the  way  they  had  seemed  to  surround  them.  He  fumed  over 
what  she  told  him  nevertheless,  and  said  "  What  rot ! " 

"I  am  sure  you  will  bear  yourself  becomingly,  if  your 
tenants  or  your  neighbours  wish  to  do  you  honour.'^ 

"  It  is  such  avrful  rot,"  he  repeated. 

But  Eunice  agreed  with  his  mother  that  it  was  only  fitting 
a  reception  should  be  given  him. 

"  I  am  not  expected  to  make  a  speech,  am  I  ? '' 

"  If  there  is  an  address  you  will  certainly  have  to  reply." 

"  Good  lord,  mother,  you  don't  mean  to  say  there  is  likely 
to  be  anything  of  that  sort !  I  feel  like  dropping  out  of  the 
train  before  it  gets  to  Marley.  I  had  no  idea — ^you'll  stand 
by  me,  won't  you?  It's  worse  than  going  into  action."  He 
got  quite  red. 

And  notwithstanding  all  they  told  liim  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  find  the  station  hung  with  flags  and  decorated 
with  bunting,  to  see  the  mayor  in  his  robes  on  the  platform 
accompanied  by  a  deputation,  to  have  a  little  girl  dressed  in 
white,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  town  councillors,  holding 
out  a  basket  of  flowers  to  him  shyly. 

"  But  this  isn't  for  me  ?  "  he  said. 

She  was  small  and  bewildered,  standing  there,  holding 
the  flowers  out  to  him.  He  took  the  offering  and  passed  it 
on  to  his  mother. 

There  was  quite  a  crowd  on  the  platform,  and  that  seemed 
the  signal  for  a  burst  of  cheering.  All  at  once  he  found  him- 
self listening  to  that  address  he  had  feared;  his  mother  and 
Eunice  on  either  side  of  him,  and  the  men  he  had  seen  at 
Paddington  formed  up  behind  him.  The  address  was  very 
short.  The  mayor  said  his  fellow-citizens  had  turned  out  to 
welcome  him  home,  because  he  had  not  only  "  covered  himself 


256  FULL  SWING 

with  glor}%  but  had  brought  honour  to  their  town."  Then  he 
said  a  word  about  those  who  had  been  left  behind. 

A  sudden  thought  of  Eric  Elphinstone  came  to  Desmond, 
and  he  brushed  his  hand  against  his  eyes. 

"  Those  who  had  been  left  hehind." 

He  did  not  hear  much  more  of  the  address  after  that. 
He  caught  a  word  or  two  about  his  mother,  and  what  she 
represented,  the  old  order  that  was  passing  away;  feudalism. 
The  mayor  and  Lady  Grindelay  had  met  over  many  a  relief 
fund  and  work  of  charity;  feudalism  was  the  root  word  in 
their  vocabulary  of  social  service. 

"Little  Marley  is  a  model  village;  Great  Marley  owes 
much  to  her  benefactions.  You  are  the  worthy  son  of  a  most 
worthy  mother.  She  must  be  proud  of  you,  and  we,  too,  are 
proud  that  you  are  our  fellow-citizen.  .  ,  ." 

Now  Desmond  found  himself  stammering  out  a  few  words 
of  thanks.  He  caught  sight  of  Sir  John  and  Lady  Campden. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  he  thought,  he  could  have  ac- 
quitted himself  better.  He  would  never  see  their  cheery  boys 
again. 

"  I  didn't  do  anything  different  from  the  other  fellows, 
I  only  had  better  luck.  If  I've  been  any  good  at  all  to — ^to 
the  Empire,  as  you  say,  it's  because  of  my  mother.  She — 
she  always  thought  such  a  lot  of  England."  He  knew  he  was 
making  an  unmitigated  ass  of  himself.  He  turned  to  the 
men  behind  him  in  their  khaki  uniforms.  "  The  honours,  and 
all  that,  should  be  for  these  chaps,  not  for  me,  not  for  the 
officers.  They  followed  us  anywhere  we  led  and  fought  like 
heroes.    It  was  they  who  did  all  the  fighting." 

"  If  we'd  always  had  leaders  like  you ! "  one  of  the  men 
said  grufHy. 

"  I  needn't  say  any  more,  need  I  ?  "  Desmond  asked  his 
mother  quickly.  "We  can  get  on  now,  can't  we?  Thank 
you,  and  thank  you  again." 

He  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  tried  to  pass.  But 
everyone  wanted  to  shake  hands  with  him,  to  say  a  personal 
word.  In  his  blue  serge  suit,  with  his  bronzed  face  and  blue 
eyes,  he  looked  very  young  and  embarrassed  as  he  tried  to  get 


FULL  SWING  257 

through  the  people  who  said  they  were  proud  of  him.  Lady 
Campden,  in  her  deep  mourning,  held  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes;  he  caught  the  sound  of  her  sobbing.  One  of  the 
boatmen  from  Eton  rafts  thrust  his  way  to  the  front  and 
insisted  upon  shaking  hands. 

"  God  bless  you,  milord.  You'll  recollect  my  boy  Jack, 
who  went  out  with  you ;  his  last  letter  was  full  of  your  kind- 
ness to  him.  His  mother  wanted  to  come  up  with  me  to 
thank  you.  But  when  the  time  came  she  couldn't  face  it;  him 
being  left  behind.    But  I  was  to  tell  you  she  was  grateful." 

"  That's  all  right,  Evans.  I'll  come  and  see  her  one  day, 
tell  her  so." 

He  remembered  young  Evans,  who  went  down  at  Magers- 
fontein;  the  last  he  saw  of  him  was  bloodstained  and  be- 
grimed, wounded  to  death,  trying  to  raise  himself,  to  pull  a 
trigger,  to  have  one  last  shot  at  the  enemy. 

Desmond  knew  he  should  disgrace  himself  before  all  these 
people  if  he  began  to  think  how  many  he  had  seen  the  last 
of,  and  how  they  fell.  It  was  all  very  well  out  there,  but  here 
at  home  they  were  no  longer  only  soldiers,  these  lost  com- 
rades of  his,  they  were  sons  and  brothers,  sweethearts,  hus- 
bands. He  could  not  face  the  womenfolk,  he  was  seeing  battle- 
fields, the  cries  of  the  wounded  came  to  him. 

But  his  mother  would  not  let  him  hurry.  Many  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears,  but  Lady  Grindelay's  old  eyes  shone  as  if  they 
were  young  again.  This  was  the  happiest  hour  of  her  life, 
the  proudest. 

Outside  the  station  there  was  a  great  crowd  waiting. 
Entrance  to  the  station  had  been  by  ticket,  and  they  were  a 
picked  and  decorous  crowd.  But  outside  there  were  the  towns- 
people and  villagers,  and  many  from  Amersham  and  Beacons- 
field,  and  the  adjacent  towns.  When  they  caught  sight  of 
Desmond  they  broke  into  cheering. 

"  *  No  Surrender  Grindelay ! '  Three  cheers  for  '  No  Sur- 
render Grindelay ! ' " 

Hats  were  thrown  in  the  air,  voices  shouted,  the  flags 
floated  in  the  breeze,  and  the  military  band  played  "  See  the 
conquering  hero  comes." 
17 


258  FULL  SWING 

They  had  difficulty  in  getting  to  the  carriage.  The  horses 
had  been  taken  out  and  men  were  harnessed  to  it.  The 
procession  formed  and  followed  them,  the  soldiers  in  khaki, 
the  blaring  band.  All  the  slow  way  to  the  Court  crowds  were 
cheering,  bunting  was  flying,  and  they  passed  under  triumphal 
arches  bearing  legends,  "  Welcome  Home !  "  "  England  wel- 
comes her  heroes  !  "    "  Long  life  to  Marley  Warriors  !  " 

Eunice's  eyes  were  wet  and  misty.  Agatha  sat  erect, 
bowing  right  and  left  as  if  she  were  a  queen.  The  scene  may 
have  been  a  little  ridiculous  to  anyone  who  did  not  know  its 
significance.  Agatha  felt  a  queen  to-day,  among  her  own 
people,  with  this  fine  young  son  of  hers  beside  her.  It  seemed 
fitting  they  should  all  turn  out  to  do  him  honour. 

As  for  Desmond,  he  was  very  uncomfortable  and  supremely 
embarrassed,  and  would  have  given  anything  to  have  been 
able  to  escape. 

At  the  village  of  Little  Marley  there  were  more  speeches. 
Little  Marley  could  not  boast  a  mayor  and  councillors,  but 
there  were  the  schoolmaster  and  the  oldest  inhabitant,  school 
children  and  the  rest.  This  time  Desmond  could  only  stammer 
out  that  it  was  awfully  good  of  them,  that  he  was  sure  he 
didn't  deserve  their  welcome.  He  would  not  even  stand  up  in 
the  carriage.  Lady  Grindelay  felt  impelled  to  take  the  task 
out  of  his  hands.  When  they  saw  she  was  going  to  speak,  they 
crowded  round;  but  she  was  quite  unembarrassed,  and  sat 
well  forward. 

*'  My  dear  son  is  too  much  moved  by  his  reception  to  be 
able  to  respond  as  he  would  wish.  He  bids  me  tell  you  that  if 
he  fought  well  it  was  because  he  was  fighting  not  only  for 
England  but  for  Marley.  There  have  always  been  Wansteads 
here,  as  you  know.  And  many  of  them  have  fought  for  their 
country.  His  gallant  brothers  in  arms,  these  Marley  men," 
she  looked  at  them,  " rode  by  his  side,  and  30U  know  how 
they  acquitted  themselves.  If  you  and  they  are  proud  of 
him,  you  can  guess  how  much  prouder  I  am — ^his  mother." 
She  stopped  there  a  minute,  and  they  cheered  her. 

"  Good  old  Polly  Providence !  "  one  shouted. 

"  And  there  is  another  proud  one  here,"  she  indicated 


FULL  SWING  259 

Eunice,  "almost  equally  well  known  to  you  all,  a  Wanstead 
too,  who  is  soon  to  be  his  wife " 

She  was  not  allowed  to  go  on. 

"  Long  life  to  them  both." 

She  wanted  to  make  her  announcement  at  that  dramatic 
moment,  and  they  caught  her  intention  quickly.  It  had 
always  been  expected,  but  they  cheered  and  cheered.  Eunice 
was  a  little  overcome,  and  Desmond,  seeing  her  turn  pale, 
bent  forward  from  his  seat  and  took  her  hand.  They  cheered 
that  too,  and  he  relinquished  it  quickly. 

There  seemed  some  little  confusion  or  disorder  at  the  back 
of  the  crowd.  They  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman  without  a 
bonnet,  red-faced  and  dishevelled,  with  grey  hair.  Then  the 
crowd  closed  up  and  shut  her  out  from  their  sight. 

"  She's  drunk  his  health  once  too  often,"  one  of  the  men 
beside  the  carriage  said,  laughingly.  "There'll  be  many  of 
them  in  that  way  to-night." 

Lady  Grindelay  motioned  to  the  men  to  go  on  after  she 
had  made  her  speech. 

"You  did  not  mind  my  speaking  for  you?"  she  asked 
Desmond. 

"  Good  heavens,  no!  Isn't  the  thing  nearly  over?  Can't 
we  have  the  horses  put  to,  or  get  out  and  walk  ?  Haven't  we 
had  enough  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  ungrateful.  It  is  only  for  a  little  while  longer. 
Be  patient." 

They  were  drawn  right  up  to  the  lodge  gate.  Desmond 
could  not  be  restrained  then,  he  jumped  out. 

"  Come  along,"  he  called  to  Eunice. 

"  May  I  ?  "  she  asked  her  aunt,  but  hardly  waited  for  the 
answer.    There  were  flags  on  the  lodge  too. 

Late  that  evening,  after  dinner,  when  all  had  been  dis- 
cussed, the  arches  and  speeches  admired,  and  every  incident 
remembered  and  magnified,  all  to  Desmond's  honour,  Eunice 
said: 

"  I  wonder  what  became  of  that  poor  woman,  the  one  they 
said  was  drunk,     I  hope  someone  took  care  of  her,  that  she 


260  FULL  SWING 

wasn't  crushed  or  trampled  upon.  I  wonder  who  she  was? 
I  seem  to  remember  her,  to  have  heard  her  voice  before." 

Neither  Desmond  nor  Lady  Grindelay  had  seen  or  heard 
anything  but  a  slight  scuffle  or  confusion. 

"  I'll  go  down  to  the  village  if  you  like,  after  dinner," 
Desmond  said,  "  and  inquire." 

"  The  club  house  is  to  be  kept  open  until  twelve.  We  are 
entertaining  the  men  there.  They  would  appreciate  your 
visit,  you  would  have  quite  an  ovation." 

"  Then  I'm  hanged  if  I  go.  I've  had  enough  of  ovations," 
he  added  hastily,  "  unless  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  He  spoke 
to  both  the  women. 

Eunice  was  not  anxious  he  should  leave  the  house  unless 
she  went  with  him.  Lady  Grindelay  thought  it  permissible 
that  Desmond  should  remain  quietly  at  home  with  them  that 
first  evening.  As  for  the  woman  of  whom  Eunice  spoke, 
nothing  serious  could  have  happened  to  her  or  they  would 
surely  have  heard. 

"  Her  voice  was  strangely  familiar  to  me,"  Eunice  said 
again.  "And  yet  I  don't  seem  to  have  heard  it  for  a  long 
time.  She  seemed  to  be  angry  about  something,  or  scolding. 
It  was  as  if  I  remember  her  always  scolding  or  grumbling." 

But  the  impression  was  a  faint  one,  and  faded  quickly  be- 
fore Lady  Grindelay's  next  speech. 

"  Those  children  will  have  to  be  marshalled  differently 
before  the  wedding.  They  just  stood  about  anyhow  and  stared. 
They  must  go  in  twos,  dropping  flowers." 

She  began  to  plan  the  wedding  festivities. 

"  I  shall  do  it  all  from  Marley.  The  marquee  on  the  lawn, 
and  the  refreshments." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Desmond  and  Eunice  pleaded  for  a  holiday  when  the  morrow 
came.  They  wanted  a  day  by  themselves,  a  day  in  the  woods, 
to  be  let  off  all  visits  of  ceremony  and  echoes  fi-om  yesterday's 
fete.  Lady  Grindelay  was  doubtful,  and  thought  it  a  little 
irregular.  People  might  call,  and  Desmond  ought  to  be  there 
to  receive  them.  But  she  could  deny  Desmond  nothing,  was 
unable  to  say  "  No  "  to  him. 

The  next  few  days  hardly  need  chronicling.  Lady  Grin- 
delay  was  kept  up  by  circumstances.  Everything  seemed  to 
be  shaping  to  her  wishes.  Even  the  Odontoglossum  showed 
symptoms  of  flowering,  and  Sanders  was  watching  it  by  night 
and  day.  All  the  preparations  were  being  pushed  forward. 
Desmond  had  persuaded  her  to  shorten  the  waiting  time  by  a 
week.  She  had  attacks  of  pain,  but  her  courage  overrode  them. 
Dr.  Eeid  was  in  constant  attendance;  but  he  and  Reynolds 
kept  the  secret  well.  The  young  people  were  to  go  to  Switzer- 
land for  their  honeymoon.  Lady  Grindelay  promised  to  nurse 
herself  wliilst  they  were  away.  If  a  second  operation  were 
unavoidable,  she  would  go  through  with  it  then.  Their 
home  was  to  be  at  Marley,  of  course.  A  suite  of  rooms  was  to 
be  re-fumished,  bathrooms  were  to  be  added;  already  work- 
men were  coming  and  going,  measurements  being  made,  papers 
and  tiles  being  chosen.  There  were  to  be  modern  comforts, 
but  without  any  alterations  in  the  main  features  of  the  rooms. 
There  was  talk  of  an  electric  installation;  but  carvings  and 
mouldings  had  to  be  considered. 

And,  of  course,  there  was  the  trousseau.  Boxes  of  under- 
clothes came  down  from  town,  and  all  the  needle-women  in 
the  village  were  already  employed.  Madame  Pariset  herself, 
with  two  assistants,  came  from  London,  and  took  orders  for 
twelve  dresses,  the  wedding-gown  amongst  them. 

Lady  Grindelay  saw  to  all  details  herself;  there  was  no 
end  to  what  she  wished  to  do  for  them.     She  asked  whether 

261 


262  FULL  SWING 

they  liked  this  or  that,  approved  of  this  or  the  other.  Her 
anxiety  to  please  them,  or  rather  Desmond,  was  touching. 
But  they  only  really  wanted  each  other,  to  enjoy  together  the 
days  in  the  mellow  woods,  or  afloat  on  the  quiet  river.  They 
were  so  happy  that  they  could  hardly  speak  of  the  future. 
The  woods  were  a  cathedral  where  their  love  became  sanc- 
tified. Oak  and  ash  and  elm  interlaced  their  boughs  and 
soughed  in  benediction,  fluttering  down  their  leaves.  The 
birds  delayed  their  flight,  twittering  wedding  songs,  and  the 
skylark  sang  its  psean  over  their  heads,  pouring  it  out  like  a 
triumph.  The  long  days  were  all  too  short.  Each  night  when 
they  parted  his  eyes  said  that  such  partings  would  soon  be  at 
an  end.  And  hers  downcast,  or  the  faint  flush  that  came  into 
her  cheek,  or  the  way  her  hands  clung  to  his,  answered  that 
she  too  knew  it.  And  Agatha  watched  them.  Whether  they 
were  in  her  sight,  or  by  themselves  in  the  woods,  or  on  the 
river,  she  watched  them.  She  had  made  so  many  mistakes. 
Looking  back,  it  seemed  her  life  had  been  one  long  mistake. 
Her  conduct  to  her  step-mother,  her  rejection  of  Andrew,  the 
way  she  had  failed  in  obtaining  Monica's  confidence,  then  her 
own  hasty  and  ill-considered  marriage.  But  now,  now  every- 
thing was  coming  right,  and  when  her  time  came  she  could 
go  in  peace. 

She  would  not  have  the  announcement  of  the  engagement 
in  the  London  papers.  Andrew  believed  she  had  a  vague  idea 
that  Gabrielle  Radlett  might  see  it  there,  and  he  found  occa- 
sion to  let  her  know  that  Gabrielle  Eadlett  was  still  in  South 
Africa. 

There  is  no  doubt  she  is  feathering  her  nest  well  out 
there.  I  hear  she  has  the  Duke  of  Illminster  in  tow  now. 
Some  South  African  paper  announced  an  engagement  be- 
tween them.    His  mother  is  hurrying  out  to  them.'* 

"  But  the  woman's  husband  is  still  alive  !  " 

*'  No.  He  died  in  prison  a  few  weeks  before  his  release. 
But  you  need  not  have  any  misgiving.  She  is  flying  at  higher 
game  now  than  Desmond." 

Agatha  said  indignantly  that  she  had  no  misgiving,  never 
had  had  a  misgiving.     Nevertheless,  the  preparations  were 


FULL  SWING  263 

hurried  on,  and,  through  that  conversation  with  Andrew, 
Desmond  secured  his  extra  week.  Three  altogether,  and  one 
and  a  half  of  them  were  already  gone,  when,  at  the  dinner 
table,  Eunice,  like  a  stone  into  still  waters,  dropped  her 
irrelevant  remark. 

"  Oh,  Desmond,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I  have  remembered 
whose  voice  that  woman's  reminded  me  of.  Isn't  it  funny? 
I  dreamt  of  her  last  night.  And  when  I  woke  this  morning 
I  remembered  quite  well.  Didn't  Desmond  have  an  Irish 
nurse,  auntie;  when  he  was  quite  a  small  boy?  Usen't  she  to 
quarrel  with  mine?  It  was  of  Desmond's  old  Irish  nurse 
she  reminded  me." 

"  What,  Biddy !  You  can't  remember  Biddy.  She  hasn't 
been  here  since  I  was  seven  years  old." 

He  appealed  to  his  mother. 

"  She  can't  remember  Biddy,  can  she,  mother  ?  She 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  four  years  old  at  the  time.  I 
wrote  to  poor  old  Biddy  from  South  Africa,  she  was  awfully 
devoted  to  me.  Mother,  it  wouldn't  be  possible,  would  it? 
If  it  were  possible  I'd  like  to  have  her  and  Larry  at  the  wed- 
ding. It  wouldn't  be  too  much  of  an  undertaking  for  them 
to  come  over,  do  you  think  ?  Biddy  must  be  nearly  seventy. 
A  good  old  sort." 

"I  believe  she  is  here,  that  she  came  over  to  see  your 
triumphant  entry.  I'm  sure  I  knew  her  voice,"  Eunice  in- 
sisted. 

"  Eunice  certainly  could  not  remember  Biddy — a  drunken 
and  disreputable  old  woman."  Lady  Grindelay  spoke  with 
unusual  difficulty,  and  both  of  them  looked  at  her  with  sur- 
prise. She  tried  to  command  herself.  "  She  had  a  very  bad 
influence  on  you." 

Desmond  caught  her  meaning  and  flushed.  So  much  had 
been  forgotten,  now  it  seemed  that  that  scene  at  Languedoc, 
at  his  father's  funeral,  was  still  remembered.  But  he  could 
not  be  disloyal. 

"  It  wasn't  Biddy's  fault,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  I  never  want  to  hear  her  name  again,"  his  mother  an- 
swered heavily.    And  then,  noting  his  expression,  added :  "  I 


264  FULL  SWING 

would  rather  not  send  for  any  of  your  old  Irish  pen- 
sioners  " 

"  Of  course  not,  not  if  you  don't  want  to.  I'm  sorry  I 
mentioned  it."  He  was  surprised  at  the  way  she  had  met  his 
request,  quite  an  idle  one.  He  never  guessed  what  was  at  the 
back  of  her  refusal,  or,  if  he  guessed,  he  guessed  wrongly. 
He  thought  the  memory  of  his  conduct  at  Languedoc  still  hurt 
her.  He  was  angry  with  himself  for  having  revived  the  past, 
and  showed  his  regret  all  through  the  evening  by  being  almost 
demonstratively  affectionate. 

It  was  no  reminiscence  of  Languedoc  or  his  father's  funeral 
that  had  distressed  Lady  Grindelay.  But  Andrew  had  told 
her  Gabrielle  Radlett's  baby  had  been  sent  to  Biddy !  An 
indefinable  fear  seized  upon  her.  Afterwards  in  the  big 
drawing-room  with  the  William  and  Mary  furniture,  embroid- 
ered covers,  and  heavy  curtains,  she  regained  her  self-posses- 
sion. Biddy  could  not  be  at  Marley,  impossible  that  any 
danger  could  threaten !  Only  nine  more  days  to  the  wed- 
ding. Yet,  for  the  first  time,  a  doubt  assailed  her.  Why  had 
she  been  so  anxious  Eunice  should  know  nothing  of  Des- 
mond's story?  The  girl  would  have  some  day  to  bear  her 
woman's  burden  of  disillusionment.  Should  she  learn  it 
now,  at  this  late  hour,  her  trust  complete  and  her  faith  un- 
bounded, would  it  not  be  more  painful  than  if  she  had  known 
it  when  his  absence  had  invested  him  with  so  much  romance 
that  in  the  blaze  of  it  even  this  might  have  been  obscured? 
In  any  case,  it  was  too  late  now.  She  had  imposed  her  will 
upon  both  Andrew  and  Desmond,  and  if  she  had  any  mis- 
giving neither  of  them  must  know  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  had  to  oppose  you  about  having  your  old 
nurse  over,"  she  said  to  Desmond  after  Eunice  had  left  them. 
Desmond  answered  quickly : 

"  Never  mind,  mother.     Don't  give  it  another  thought." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  prejudiced,  but  she  was 
always  very  difficult,  and  not  sober." 

"I  know.  I  wish  I  had  not  asked  it;  it  was  only  an  idle 
thought.  Forget  it,  mother.  You've  been  so  good  to  me,  and 
you've  forgotten  so  much." 


FULL  SWING  265 

"  You  were  so  young/""  she  said. 

"  Everybody  is  so  good  to  me.  Sometimes  it  seems  impos- 
sible I  can  be  so  happy,"  he  broke  out,  surprising  her  by  his 
impetuosity  and  emotion.  But  he  was  convinced  now  of  her 
sympathy.  "  I  want  to  call  in  the  whole  world  to  see.  But 
not  Biddy,  or  Larry,  if  3^ou  don't  wish  it."  He  put  his  hand 
on  hers.  "  I'm  growing  more  what  you  wanted  me  to  be, 
mother,  aren't  I  ?  "  His  tone  asked  that  her  emotion  should 
meet  his,  her  sympathy  overflow  in  words. 

"  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  you." 

"  I'd  like  to  make  up  to  you  for  everything." 

"  There  is  very  little  for  which  you  have  not  compen- 
sated me,"  she  answered.  And  she  had  hardly  before  said  so 
much  as  that  to  him,  although  she  had  known  it  so  well. 
It  had  been  for  him,  more  than  for  Eunice,  that  she  had  im- 
posed secrecy  upon  them  all ;  that  no  one  should  find  fault 
with  or  condemn  him. 

"  Have  I  ?  Have  I  ?  When  we  began  to  talk  of  Biddy  it 
reminded  me.  .  .  ." 

''  Of  what  neither  of  us  wished  to  remember."  He  caught 
the  agitation  in  her  voice. 

"We  won't  talk  of  it  again,  then.  But  it  was  curious 
that  Eunice  should  have  thought  she  recognised  Biddy's 
voice,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Very  strange." 

"  Not  possible,  you  tliink  ?  " 

"  Quite  impossible." 

And  then  that  faint,  indefinable  misgiving  came  over  her 
again. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  her  in  the  same  town  with  you, 
with  either  of  you,"  she  said  involuntarily. 

Desmond  did  not,  of  course,  know  the  secret  of  her  intol- 
erance' of  Biddy's  presence  in  Marley. 

"  You're  not  going  to  have-  a  bad  night,  are  you  ?  There's 
no  need.  Biddy  can't  be  at  Marley  without  our  knowing  of  it. 
Eunice  is  imaginative,  she  often  had  strange  dreams,  you 
know.  She  thinks  of  me  all  the  time.  Mother,  isn't  it  beau- 
tiful the  way  she  thinks  of  me,  and  knew  I  should  come  back 


266  FULL  SWING 

although  everybody  else  thought  I  was  dead  ?  I  m  not  nearly 
good  enough  for  her.  I'm  so  glad  now  that  you  wouldn't  let 
me  tell  her  about — about  that.  She  could  never  have  under- 
stood. She's  so  innocent,  living  here  all  her  days  by  you,  and 
in  the  woods.    Oh !  mother,  if  I  should  fail  her !  " 

"  You  won't  fail  her." 

"  I  failed  you  both  once."    His  voice  was  low. 

"  She  will  never  know." 

"  If  the  McKays  had  not  found  out  that  it  was  no  mar- 
riage ! " 

"  Be  thankful  they  did.    Forget  it !  " 

"  I've  never  been  anything  but  thankful ;  overwhelmed 
sometimes  when  I  think  of  what  might  have  been.  I  couldn't 
face  life  without  Eunice,  I  want  her  in  every  way.  Some- 
times I  can't  believe  it  is  true,  that  in  nine  days  we  shall 
be  married,  that  we  are  going  away  tc^ether.  How  good  you've 
been  to  us ! " 

She  had  never  been  gentler,  nor  spoken  to  him  more 
openly  than  to-night. 

"  I  am  being  good  to  myself  too,  I  want  you  both  here. 
It  seems  like  a  dream  to  me,  too,  sometimes.  Such  a  good 
dream  to  stay  with  me  whilst  you  are  honeymooning.  Mar- 
ley,  with  both  of  you  to  come  after  me !  You  will  have  chil- 
dren. I  want  to  see  your  children  running  about  in  the 
garden.  It  seems  only  yesterday  when  you  and  Eunice  played 
there.    I  did  not  understand  having  a  son  then." 

"  I  wanted  to  climb  into  your  lap  sometimes,  like  Eunice 
did.  When  I  was  disobedient  and  defiant  it  was  because  I  was 
miserable.  I  thought  England  was  going  to  be  a  dreadful 
place,  all  laws  and  restrictions;  and  that  you'd  hate  me.  But 
you  weren't  a  bit  like  what  I  expected,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  of  you  hating  me.  You  don't  know  how  strange  it  was. 
I  wanted  to  kick  and  scream  to  see  what  you'd  say  or  do.  But 
what  I  wanted  most  of  all,"  he  was  fingering  her  dress  and 
telling  her  these  strange  things  with  a  far-off  wistful  look, 
*'  was  that  you  should  snatch  me  up,  and  kiss  me,  or  that  you 
should  soften  down  on  me  with  one  of  those  smiles  you  kept 
for  Eunice." 


FULL  SWING  267 

"  Do  you  wonder  I  cannot  bear  to  remember  those  days — 
Languedoc  or  Ireland,  with  those  old  servants  who  set  you 
against  me?''  she  interrupted  agitatedly. 

She  was  not  consciously  disingenuous,  but  greatly  moved 
and  unwilling  to  show  it. 

"  Things  were  better  after  I  went  to  Eton,  weren't  they  ?  " 

"  It  is  best  of  all  now." 

"  It  will  be  better  still  when  we  come  back." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Biddy  could  not  have  been  at  Little  Marley  without  either 
Desmond  or  his  mother  knowing  it.  But  she  could  be,  and 
was,  at  Great  Marley,  laid  up  in  the  hospital  since  the  day 
of  Desmond's  triumphant  entr}\  She  had  a  burden  in  her 
arms  when  she  was  brought  there.  Biddy  had  not  been  in- 
jured by  the  crowd,  she  had  no  broken  limbs,  nothing  but  a 
bruise  or  two.  But  Biddy  had  been  drinking  for  years,  and 
that,  with  the  excitement  following  close  on  her  journey,  a 
little  rough  usage,  perhaps  from  the  crowd,  and  the  ungov- 
ernable rage  into  which  she  had  fallen  when  her  way  to  the 
carriage  wasi  impeded,  had  brought  on  what  the  hospital 
matron  called  "  D.T/s,"  and  the  young  house  surgeon,  "  cir- 
rhosis of  the  liver." 

The  diagnosis  or  prognosis  is  unimportant.  All  the  after- 
noon of  Desmond's  home-coming  she  had  drunk  and  maudled 
and  cursed,  and  in  the  evening  she  had  been  brought  here.  At 
first  she  was  violent,  disturbing  the  other  patients  by  her 
cries,  and  her  removal  to  the  infirmary  ward  of  the  workhouse 
had  been  discussed.  This  would  have  been  en  route  to  the 
county  asylum.  But  they  wanted  to  see  if  she  would  improve, 
and  be  able  to  give  some  account  of  herself  and  the  baby  she 
carried  in  her  arms. 

"  She's  too  old  for  it  to  be  her  own  child.  And  it  was 
dressed  in  fine  clothes,  although  they  were  so  dirty." 

"  Well,  nurse,  we'll  give  her  another  twenty-four  hours," 
the  visiting  doctor  said  cheerfully.  "  But  I  can't  have  her  dis- 
turbing the  whole  ward.  I've  given  her  bromide,  and  I'll  see 
her  again  to-morrow.  Perhaps  then  she  will  be  able  to  tell 
us  something  about  herself  and  where  she  comes  from.  There 
were  a  lot  of  Irish  over  for  the  harvest.  She  may  have  been 
left  behind." 

No  one  connected  her  with  the  great  house,  with  Marley 

268 


FULL  SWING  269 

Court,  or  dreamed  the  child  she  carried  was  grand-daughter  to 
Lady  Grindelay. 

Biddy  had  a  fine  constitution  for  all  her  drinking  habits 
and  the  pitch  to  which  they  had  brought  her.  AVhen  her  brain 
began  to  clear  she  held  her  tongue  and  pretended  to  have 
lost  her  memory. 

"  Don't  be  moidering  me/'  s.he  would  say,  when  they  ques- 
tioned her.  She  was  quite  cunning  and  full  of  blarney.  She 
had  money  with  her,  wrapped  up  in  the  comer  of  an  old 
red  handkerchief. 

"  It's  grateful  I  am  for  all  your  kindness ;  I  won't  be 
troublin'  much  longer.  I'm  feelin'  much  stronger  this  after- 
noon." 

Ten  days  she  had  lain  in  delirium,  and  at  first  was  too 
weak  to  put  her  feet  to  the  ground.  They  brought  her  the 
baby,  but  she  could  hardly  hold  it. 

"  I'll  be  betther  whin  I've  tasted  the  air.  Will  ye  hould 
her  for  me,  an'  let  me  get  out  for  a  spell  ?  " 

They  would  not  at  first,  but  afterwards  they  yielded  to  her 
desire  to  try  the  strength  that  was  returning.  They  kept  the 
handkerchief  with  the  money,  as  well  as  the  baby,  hostages, 
as  it  were.  The  rules  of  the  new  hospital  at  Marley  were  not 
nearly  so  inelastic  as  those  at  London — Guy's  or  St.  Thomas's, 
for  instance. 

"  She  can  keep  the  bed  for  a  day  or  two.  Let  her  go  out 
for  an  hour  since  she's  so  anxious  for  air.  A  queer  old  thing ! 
She  can't  get  any  drink  if  you  don't  let  her  have  her  money. 
She  won't  beg,  she's  not  that  sort." 

The  first  day  Biddy  had  permission  to  go  out  she  came 
back  to  the  hospital  in  less  than  an  hour.  She  had  had  to 
cling  to  the  railings,  and  recognised  her  own  weakness.  They 
let  her  keep  her  bed;  there  was  no  other  applicant,  and  her 
case  interested  them.  The  baby,  too,  through  cold  or  expo- 
sure, developed  iritis  and  justified  itself  as  an  in-patient. 

The  day  Biddy  Malone  felt  equal  to  the  purpose  that  had 
brought  her  to  England  was  just  three  days  before  the  one 
on  which  Desmond  and  Eunice  were  to  be  married.  Biddy 
knew  nothing  of  the  marriage.     She  thought  Desmond  was 


270  FULL  SWING 

already  married  to  the  mother  of  the  child  that  had  been  sent 
to  her  to  care  for.  She  had  no  doubt  it  was  a  secret  marriage, 
that  he  feared  his  mother's  anger.  There  was  nothing  too  bad 
or  too  incredible  for  Biddy  to  think  of  Lady  Grindelay. 

"  I'll  not  be  trustin'  the  child  to  her,  she'd  be  for  makin' 
away  wid  it.  It's  Mr.  Desmond  himsilf  I've  got  to  see.  He'll 
be  wantin'  his  child,  an'  the  mother  of  it  in  hidin'  belike." 

Her  brain  was  still  not  very  clear,  but  something  of  this 
sort  was  in  her  mind.  The  day  of  the  procession  she  had  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  tried  to  hold  it  up  for  Desmond  to  see, 
but  the  crowd  prevented  her;  she  had  fought  with  them  and 
been  knocked  down.  To-day  she  was  quite  sober,  although 
a  little  weak. 

As  she  turned  into  the  High  Street,  the  carriage  and  pair 
from  the  Court  came  past,  the  old-fashioned  barouche  with  its 
greys,  the  coachman  and  footman  on  the  box,  with  their  early 
Victorian  hats  adorned  with  gold  braid  and  acorns.  They 
were  driving  slowly,  but  their  slow  drive  took  them  out  of  her 
sight  before  she  had  done  more  than  see  her  "bhoy,"  and 
with  a  "  foine  young  lady  "  by  his  side.  She  started  to  run 
after  them,  but  tripped  and  nearly  fell. 

"Where  are  you  going  to,  mother?"  A  kindly  young 
milkman  held  her  up;  the  cans  in  his  cart  jingled,  but  the 
pony  stood  still.  "  You  nearly  went  under  their  feet.  Lucky 
for  you  I'd  just  got  out.  You  mustn't  run  about  the  roads 
like  that." 

"  An'  who  was  ut  that  was  passin'  ?  Shure  an'  didn't  I 
see  him  with  her  by  his  side  ?  "  She  gasped  out  her  inquiry, 
she  was  quite  oblivious  of  her  danger  from  the  horses'  hoofs. 
"  Young  man,  can  ye  say  who  it  moight  be  ?  "  She  was  almost 
dignified,  although  anxious,  laying  hold  of  his  arm. 

"  You  must  be  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  or  you'd  have 
known  that  was  the  Court  carriage,  the  young  lord  in  it,  and 
her  he's  to  wed  on  Thursday." 

"To  wed  is  ut?" 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  not  to  know  ?  " 

"  An'  where'll  they  be  goin'  to  now  ?  " 


FULL  SWING  271 

Her  Irish  wits  were  returning  to  her;  the  young  man  was 
stolid  and  slow  in  comparison. 

"Going  to?" 

"  Where  will  they  be  drivin'  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?    To  the  station  most  likely." 

"  An'  they'll  be  eomin'  back  this  way  ?  " 

"  What  a  one  you  are  with  your  questioning.  What  other 
way  could  they  come  ?  " 

He  got  into  the  cart  again,  gathering  up  the  reins,  making 
a  noise  the  pony  seemed  to  understand. 

"  I'd  advise  you  to  keep  on  the  pavement,"  he  called  out. 
And  then  "  Milk  ho !  Milk  ho ! "  came  from  him  monot- 
onously. 

Biddy  Malone  stood  stock  still  where  he  had  left  her,  a  tall, 
rather  picturesque  figure  in  her  shawl  and  uncovered  head. 
She  took  his  advice  about  the  pavement  for  the  moment,  but 
she  meant  to  go  back  into  the  road  later. 

"  Cock  him  up,  indade !  He'll  be  seein'  me  a  long  way 
off.  An'  she — she'll  be  glad  to  be  hearin'  of  her  baby,  an' 
seein'  it,  maybe ;  if  that's  hersilf  wid  him !  An'  what  for  are 
they  wantin'  to  kape  it  quiet.  'Tis  something  that  ould  divil's 
up  to,  belike.  But  I'll  hear  what  my  bairn  says.  Maybe  he 
knows  nothin'  at  all  about  it,  and  ut's  a  conspiracy." 

The  carriage  was  on  its  way  to  the  station  as  the  milk- 
man had  surmised.  There  was  no  Madame  Pariset  for  Des- 
mond, to  come  down  and  fit  him  with  clothes  for  his  wedding 
journey.  Desmond  was  going  up  to  town  for  a  final  trying 
on,  and  Eunice  was  seeing  him  off.  He  was  not  coming  back 
until  the  next  day.  There  was  a  bachelor  dinner  to  be  given, 
a  farewell  dinner. 

"  I'll  get  the  fitting  through  this  afternoon,  and  catch  the 
9.40  to-morrow  morning.  I  grudge  every  minute  I'm  away 
from  you,"  he  said,  with  one  foot  on  the  step  of  the  railway 
carriage. 

"  It  will  be  the  last  time,"  she  reassured  him,  smiling, 
blushing.  "  It's  only  for  a  few  hours,"  she  said  again,  after 
that  long,  last  kiss. 

But  she  felt,  as  she  went  out  of  the  station,  that  the  hours 


373  FULL  SWING 

would  seem  too  many.  Of  course,  Desmond  must  give  this 
dinner  party.  It  was  to  men  he  had  been  with  in  South 
Africa,  his  brother  officers,  school  friends.  Jimmy  Thwaites 
was  to  be  the  gxiest  of  the  evening.  Eunice,  as  she  drove  off, 
pictured  Jimmy  being  carried  to  his  seat  at  Desmond's  right 
hand.  Her  heart  was  warm  to  Desmond  for  having  insisted 
on  it.  It  was  so  like  him.  She  was  still  thinking  of  Des- 
mond and  his  many  perfections  as  she  drove  down  Marley 
High  Street.  The  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a  jerk,  the 
footman  jumped  down  and  came  to  her  side. 

"  Beg  pardon,  miss,  but  there's  a  woman  in  the  road. 
She  won't  move." 

"  Won't  move !    Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  It's  here  that  I  am."  Biddy  answered  for  herself.  When, 
she  had  achieved  her  object,  and  stayed  the  progress  of  the 
carriage,  she  came  slowly  to  the  door.  ''  It's  mesilf  that's 
here." 

And  then,  for  Eunice  was  gazing  at  her  in  surprise,  and 
the  footman  was  waiting  for  instructions,  she  added: 

"  I'm  thinkin'  ye'd  like  to  have  a  word  wid  me." 

"  Do  I  know  you  ?  I  seem  to  know  you,"  Eunice  asked 
wonderingly. 

"  It's  Biddy  Malone  I  am,  from  away  over." 

"  Then  I  was  right,  after  all ;  you  were  in  the  crowd  that 
day.    You  are  Desmond's  old  nurse  ?  " 

She  leaned  forward  impulsively,  the  encounter  seemed  quite 
natural  to  her,  natural,  too,  that  Biddy  should  want  to  see 
her  nursling  now  that  he  had  become  a  hero. 

"  He  has  just  gone  up  to  town.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  know 
he  would  have  wished  to  see  you." 

She  would  have  liked  to  have  bidden  her  get  in,  driven 
her  to  the  Court,  there  to  await  Desmond's  return,  but  she 
remembered  how  strange  her  aunt  had  been  about  this  woman, 
and  hesitated.    Biddy  saw  the  first  impulse  and  the  hesitation. 

"  Won't  ye  be  gittin'  out  ?  "  she  wheedled,  adding  in  a  low 
voice :  "  There's  somethin'  I'm  wishful  to  be  tellin'  ye." 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  world  for  Eunice.  This 
old  woman  had  nursed  him  when  he  was  a  baby,  been  with 


FULL  SWING  273 

him  all  through  his  early  years.     Eunice  was  never  tired 
of  hearing  about  Desmond  and  those  early  years, 

"  I  should  love  to  hear.  You  can  drive  on,  John.  Pick 
me  up  at  Layton's ;  I  shall  have  tea  there." 

Layton's  was  the  principal  confectioner's  in  the  town. 
Eunice  and  Desmond  often  went  there  for  tea  or  ices.  John 
thought  it  was  rather  "  a  rum  go  "  to  take  the  old  woman 
with  her,  but  charity  covers  a  multitude  of  eccentricities. 

Neither  John  nor  the  coachman  recognised  Biddy. 

"  Spun  her  a  tale  no  doubt.  It's  no  concern  of  ours,"  the 
coachman  said,  when  John  repeated  that  it  was  "  a  rum  go." 
"  She's  growing  like  her  aunt.  Any  beggar  can  get  hold  of 
them  if  they  go  the  right  way  to  work.  We'll  get  along  to 
the  '  Arms.' " 

Biddy  stalked,  tall  and  picturesque,  by  Eunice's  side. 

"  We'll  not  be  talkin'  just  yet,"  she  said  mysteriously. 

Eunice  was  in  no  hurry. 

"  You'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  me,  and  tell  me  all  you 
can  remember.  He  is  coming  back  to-morrow.  You  want  to 
see  him,  don't  you?  He  has  never  forgotten  you.  Where 
are  you  staying  ?    Why  haven't  you  been  up  before  ?  " 

"  Is  ut  to  the  Court  I'd  be  comin'  to  see  hersilf  ?  " 

Eunice  had  no  thought  of  disloyalty  to  her  aunt,  but  she 
knew  Lady  Grindelay  was  a  little  hard  on  the  outside,  and  was 
deemed  intolerant  by  tliose  who  did  not  know  her. 

"  She  would  have  understood  you  wanted  to  see  him  again, 
and  arranged  something.     I'll  tell  her  when  I  go  home." 

"  You'll  be  tellin'  her !  " 

Biddy  stopped  still  in  her  astonishment. 

"  She  won't  mind,"  Eunice  answered  confidently.  "  Here's 
Layton's.  We'll  go  upstairs,  there  is  a  nice  quiet  room.  You'd 
like  eggs  with  your  tea,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

She  gave  her  order.  They  knew  her  quite  well  at  the 
shop,  and  asked  after  Lady  Grindelay,  and  if  her  health  was 
keeping  up. 

"  This  is  Lord  Grindelay's  old  nurse.    We  are  going  to  have 
tea  together.    She  has  come  all  the  way  from  Ireland  to  see 
him.    Mind  you  send  us  up  a  nice  tea." 
18 


274  FULL  SWING 

Biddy  followed  Eunice  upstairs  slowly.  She  was  shrewd, 
and  began  to  have  her  doubts.  Eunice  looked  very  young  in 
her  light  clothes  and  wide  hat ;  kindness  was  in  her  blue  eyes 
and  fresh  young  voice,  she  seemed  frank,  not  as  if  she  had  a 
secret  to  hold. 

In  the  quiet  room  upstairs,  with  its  white-topped  tables, 
whilst  they  waited  for  their  tea  to  be  brought,  Eunice  began 
at  once  to  question  Biddy. 

"  Tell  me  everything  you  remember  about  him.  Begin  at 
the  beginning,  when  he  was  quite  a  tiny  baby." 

"  Is  ut  of  Misther  Desmond,  God  bless  him,  ye're  wantin' 
me  to  tell  ye  ?  "  Biddy  said  slowly. 

"  Who  else  should  it  be  ? "  Eunice  laughed  merrily. 
"  Here  comes  the  tea ;  they  haven't  kept  us  waiting  long,  have 
they  ?  I'm  going  to  wait  upon  you,  to  pour  out.  I  expect  the 
scones  will  come  later;  they're  cooking  them.  You'll  begin 
with  the  bread  and  butter."  Eunice  knew  how  the  old  women 
at  Little  Marley  liked  their  tea.  "  I'm  just  going  to  sit  and 
listen,  you  must  do  all  the  talking." 

She  had  no  misgiving.  This  was  something  of  an  adven- 
ture, something  to  tell  Aimt  Agatha  over  dinner,  something 
to  chaff  Desmond  about.  She  would  hear  when  he  first  spoke, 
and  the  things  he  said,  anecdotes  of  his  babyhood. 

"  Go  on,  I  want  to  hear  everything.  I  recollect  how  dis- 
obedient he  was,  and  that  my  nursie  called  him  '  a  limb.'  He 
began  to  ride  when  he  was  three  years  old,  didn't  he?  You 
must  have  been  afraid  every  time  he  was  out  of  your  sight." 
She  was  encouraging  her  to  talk. 

Biddy  stirred  her  tea,  and  poured  it  out  into  the  saucer 
slowly. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Eunice;  "  begin." 

"Is  ut  of  Mr.  Desmond  ye  want  to  hear?  Not  her  I've 
brought  wid  me  ?  " 

"  Whom  have  you  brought  with  you  ?  No,  of  course  not ; 
it's  only  of  Desmond.  Is  Larry  with  you  ?  Desmond  has  told 
me  about  Larry." 

"  It's  not  Larry  I've  got  wid  me.  Is  it  you  that's  goin' 
to  marry  himsilf  in  three  days  time,  thin?" 


FULL  SWING  375 

"  Yes." 

"  An'  your  aunt,  her  up  at  the  house,  she's  led  ye  on  to  ut  ?  " 

"  She  is  quite  pleased." 

"  I  recollect  now.  It's  you  was  the  child  in  the  white  frock, 
her  that  had  never  got  to  get  her  feet  wet,  that  stood  before 
my  lambeen  bawn,  before  the  own  son  of  her." 

The  old  woman  raised  her  voice.  Eunice  thought  she 
seemed  to  be  angry,  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

'•  But  all  that's  a  long  time  ago.  Desmond  comes  first 
now." 

"  Ah,  does  he  ?  An'  she's  made  up  tliis  f oine  match  betune 
yez,  f  orcin'  him  to  ut  belike  ?  " 

The  old  woman  certainly  seemed  angry.  She  was  not 
drinking  her  tea,  but  sat  staring  at  the  girl,  her  dark  eyes 
fierce. 

"  She  is  not  forcing  him  to  it,"  Eunice  answered,  smiling, 
dimpling,  but  a  little  afraid  nevertheless,  wondering  whether 
she  had  been  too  impulsive,  now  that  it  was  too  late,  wondering 
if  her  guest  were  drunk  or  mad,  whether  anyone  would*  come 
if  she  called.  The  thought  of  the  scones  comforted  her;  they 
would  be  here  soon,  and  Mrs.  Layton,  stout,  motherly  Mrs. 
Layton,  with  them. 

"  He  wants  to  marry  me.  You  mustn't  think  auntie  has 
arranged  it." 

"  An'  how  about  his  wife  an'  child  ?  How  about  his  wife 
an'  child  ?  "  Biddy  asked  fiercely.  She  banged  the  table  with 
her  fist.  "  Tell  me  that.  What^s  to  become  of  the  child  ?  Is 
ut  the  dirty  suck  she'll  be  puttin'  on  ut  ?  " 

Of  course  she  was  mad,  stark,  staring  mad.  Desmond's 
"  wife  and  child !  "  The  phrase  flushed  her.  She  was  so  soon 
to  be  Desmond's  wife.  The  mere  thought  of  a  child,  a  baby, 
Desmond's  and  hers,  brought  the  flush  hot,  and  she  made  no 
answer  to  this  mad  woman.  Now  she  only  wanted  to  get 
away  from  her. 

"  I'll  go  down  and  see  Mrs.  Layton  myself,  she  is  such  a 
long  time  coming." 

She  rose,  but  Biddy  rose  with  her,  tall  and  menacing. 

"  You'll  not  lave  this  room.     I  don't  belave  ye  know  a 


276  FULL  SWING 

word  about  it.     You've  got  to  hear.     An'  to  think  of  the 
wickedness  of  her !    An'  him  with  a  wife  an'  child  already." 

Biddy  was  pouring  out  fierce,  incoherent  words. 

"  Let  me  go,  you  are  making  a  mistake,  you  must  tell  him 
to-morrow." 

Eunice  was  startled  and  alarmed,  did  not  know  what  to 
say,  how  to  make  her  escape.  Of  course  tlie  woman  was  mad. 
She  ought  to  have  known  it  before,  when  she  saw  her  standing 
in  the  road. 

"You  think  you're  the  first  wid  him;  that  ut's  his  wife 
ye'll  be !  "  Biddy  spoke  more  slowly  now,  and  with  less  inco- 
herent vehemence.  She  could  see  well  enough  now  that  it  was 
news  she  was  breaking  to  the  girl.  "  The  wickedness  of  ut! 
You  that's  little  more  than  a  cliild  yersilf !  They  haven't  tould 
ye  a  word  about  ut,  nor  Desmond  himsilf  belike.  I  misdoubted 
whin  there  was  no  word  of  ut  in  his  letter.  Ye  don't  belave 
what  I'm  tellin'  ye?  An'  haven't  I  got  the  bit  uv  writin'  in 
me  pocket  ?  "  She  produced  a  worn  letter.  "  Here,  take  ut, 
an'  read  for  yersilf." 

Because  now  she  was  more  than  a  little  frightened,  not  at 
what  she  was  saying,  but  by  the  woman  herself,  this  mad 
Irishwoman,  and  did  not  wish  to  irritate  her  further,  Eunice 
put  out  her  hand  for  tlie  paper.  Her  eyes  fell  perfunctorily  on 
the  page,  the  letter  could  be  no  concern  of  hers.  But  her  eyes 
having  fallen  on  the  page  remained  there,  fastened  on  it. 

"This  is  to  Biddy  Malone,  Desmond's  old  nurse. 
I  am  sending  you  his  hahy  as  he  desired.  You're  to  care 
for  and  keep  it  until  either  o-r  both  of  us  co7ne  hack  from 
South  Africa.  The  ivoman  who  brings  him  to  you  can, 
stay  a  night  or  two  I  suppose.  She's  an  old  friend  of 
mine,  and  I've  given  her  all  instructions. 

"  (Lady)  Gabrielle  Grindelay." 

"  Gabrielle  Grindelay! " 

Eunice's  eyes  clung  to  the  page,  coming  away  slowly. 
"  An'  what  do  ye  think  now  ?  "  Biddy  said  triumphantly. 
"  It  isn't  true !  "  Eunice  answered  unsteadily.    "  I  know  it 
isn't  true." 


FULL  SWING  277 

"  Perhaps  ye'll  be  readin'  it  agin." 

"  It  isn't  true ;  you're  a  wicked  woman.  No,  I  don't  mean 
that,  but  you've  been  deceived." 

There  was  a  constriction  in  her  throat,  and  she  felt  as  if 
she  would  like  to  cry.  She  had  not  known  there  were  such 
wicked  people  in  the  world.  The  full  sense  of  the  letter  had 
hardly  come  to  her,  but  she  was  ashamed,  as  if  she  had 
stumbled  into  sometliing  unclean,  and  shocked,  but,  above 
all,  incredulous.  She  wanted  to  get  away  from  this  old  woman 
and  her  dreadful  words,  her  stupid  letter. 

"  Not  thrue,  thin,  is  it  ?  An'  her  the  livin'  image  of  her 
feyther.  Do  ye  remimber  the  curly  head  ov  him,  and  the 
bonnie  blue  eyes  ?  I've  the  child  wid  me  at  the  hospital.  Per- 
haps ye'd  like  to  see  her.  She's  not  so  big,  but  she's  the  mole 
on  her  arm  an'  all,  the  livin'  image  ov  him,  the  darlint." 

"  Be  quiet,  be  quiet.    I  won't  listen." 

She  felt  she  must  get  away,  out  of  the  room,  away  from 
the  shop,  away  from  tliis  disreputable  old  woman  and  the 
horrible  things  she  was  saying. 

"  It's  no  marriage  at  all  ye're  goin'  through,"  Biddy  said 
solemnly.  "  I  don't  know  what  lies  they've  bin  tellin'  you 
nor  him.  He'll  be  thinkin'  he's  free,  surely;  it's  not  him 
that  ud  be  playin'  the  trick  on  ye." 

Mrs.  Layton  came  in  with  the  hot  scones  and  stopped  short 
at  the  door.  Eunice  was  white  and  her  eyes  were  frightened. 
Mrs.  Layton  had  known  Eunice  since  she  was  a  child ;  she  put 
the  plate  down  and  went  to  her. 

"■'  Why,  Miss  Eunice !  "  She  looked  suspiciously  at  BidSy. 
"  What's  she  been  saying  to  you  ?    Is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"  There's  notliing  the  matter."  The  girl  held  up  her 
head  and  maintained  her  courage.  "  Wliat  she's  been  saying 
to  me  has  to  be  proved."  She  met  Biddy's  eyes  and  went  on 
defiantly :  "  She  has  told  me  a  stor}',  and  I  am  going  to  see 
if  it  is  true." 

"  It's  thrue  enough,"  Biddy  put  in. 

Mrs.  Layton  stood  irresolutely. 

"  I  never  did  hold  with  them  Irish,"  she  said. 

Eunice  felt  that  it  was  for  Desmond  she  was  fighting. 


278  FULL  SWII^G 

The  room  vras  very  dark  and  swa}'ing  about  her,  and  inside 
she  was  trembling.  But  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must 
fight  for  Desmond,  for  his  honour.  Someone  had  been  writing 
lies  about  him,  wicked,  incredible  lies.  He  would  not  be  back 
until  to-morrow  to  defend  himself,  but  she  would  defend  him. 

"  I  will  drive  back  with  you  to  the  hospital  and  see  this 
child.  You  will  have  to  give  me  that  letter.  I  can't  think  who 
wrote  it;  it  must  have  been  some  wicked,  wiched  woman. 
There  is  no  other  Lady  Grindelay  but  Aunt  Agatha." 

The  carriage  was  already  outside;  she  heard  it  drive  up, 
saw  it  from  the  window.  The  back  of  the  coachman  gave 
her  confidence,  a  sense  of  solidity  came  back  to  her,  the  room. 
ceased  to  sway. 

"  If  you  have  finished  your  tea,''  she  said  to  Biddy,  all 
her  young  dignity  in  arms,  "  we  will  go  now." 

Already  she  was  imagining  herself  telling  Desmond  of  this, 
saying :  "  Of  course  I  never  believed  a  word  of  her  story,  never 
for  a  single  instant." 

The  stairs  were  uneven  and  close,  and  the  shop  smelt  in- 
tolerably warm  and  nauseating.  She  was  glad  to  find  herself 
in  the  carriage,  with  Biddy  beside  her. 

Biddy  sat  with  set  face,  malice  or  triumph  in  the  dark 
eyes.  It  was  of  Lady  Grindelay  she  was  thinking,  "  the  foine 
English  lady  who  had  thought  herself  too  good  for  them  all 
at  Langucdoc !  "  Whatever  she  had  meant  to  do,  she,  Biddy 
Malone,  would  get  even  with  her  now. 

"  Was  she  thinkin'  me  such  an  ownshuck  that  it  was  easy 
to  throw  dust  in  me  eyes  ?  "  she  thought. 

"  To  the  hospital,  to  Marley  Hospital,"  Eunice  told  the 
footman. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  give  me  that  letter,"  she  said,  after 
they  had  been  driving  a  few  minutes,  when  the  air  had  revived 
her. 

"  I'll  give  it  up  to  thim  as  had  it  wrote  to  me." 

"  You'll  give  it  up  to — to  Lord  Grindelay  ?  " 

"  He'll  not  be  wantin'  it,"  she  answered  dryly.  *'  It's  him'll 
be  knowin'  what's  inside." 

Eunice  did  not  speak  again ;  she  could  not. 


FULL  SWING  279 

When  they  got  to  the  hospital,  Biddy  got  out  nimbly. 

"  You  bide  there,  I'll  bring  her  to  you." 

Eunice  was  glad  to  be  alone,  if  one  can  apply  such  a  word 
as  gladness  to  the  state  of  her  mind.  She  knew  that  it  was 
all  untrue,  that  there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  what  had 
been  told  her.  But  for  all  that,  the  wild  beating  of  her  heart 
had  given  her  a  dreadful  pain  in  her  back,  her  limbs  were 
trembling,  and  she  felt  sick  and  faint,  almost  incapable  of 
movement.  If  anyone  she  knew  passed  her  she  would  be  un- 
able to  speak  to  them  or  explain.  She  knew  she  was  being  a 
coward,  that  she  would  not  feel  like  this  if  she  were  not  a 
coward.  Yet  she  held  on  to  her  faith  like  a  heroine.  "  Not  a 
word  of  it  is  true,  I  can  tell  him  I  knew  that  all  along,"  she 
kept  saying  to  herself. 

Biddy  reappeared. 

"  They  won't  let  me  bring  her  out.    You'll  have  to  come  in." 

Lady  Grindelay  subscribed  generously  to  the  Marley  Hos- 
pital, but  Eunice  had  never  been  there.  From  all  sickness 
and  sorrow,  from  pain  and  the  knowledge  of  it,  Agatha  had 
protected  the  girl.  Matron  and  nurses  glanced  at  her  when 
she  went  through.  Her  head  was  erect,  but  her  face  pale. 
Perhaps  they  wondered  or  surmised  a  story ;  not  the  true  one, 
but  a  story. 

"Here  she  is,  thin." 

Eunice  sat  down  on  the  chair  beside  the  cot;  she  was 
unable  to  stand.  The  baby  lying  in  the  cot  had  blue  eyes, 
and  dark  hair  like  Desmond's.  They  were  Desmond's  eyes 
that  looked  at  her  or  at  Biddy.  Eunice  was  .not  going  to  faint; 
she  forgot  everything  else  now  but  that  she  must  not  faint. 
Biddy  took  the  infant  up  in  her  arms. 

"  Look  at  the  darlint  now,  an'  the  bright  blue  eyes  of 
her!" 

"  You  must  not  do  that,"  The  nurse  came  forward.  "  She 
must  stay  in  her  cot." 

"  Arrah  thin,  an'  don't  be  interf  erin'  wid  me."  Certainly 
there  was  a  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice.  "I'm  showin' 
the  lady  the  birth  mark  of  her."  She  pulled  up  the  sleeve  of 
the  pink  flannel  nightgown.    "  On  the  inside  of  the  arm  now. 


280  FULL  SWING 

An'  another  she's  got  on  her  leg,  an'  your  aftlier  tellin'  me  she's 
not  belongin'  to  his  lordship !  " 

Eunice  was  of  high  heart  and  courage.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  believe  nothing.  All  the  time  it  was  in  her  mind 
that  she  would  be  able  to  tell  him  she  had  believed  nothing. 
But  the  blue  eyes,  and  now  the  little  mole  on  that  baby 
arm     .     .     . 

When  Desmond  rowed  and  she  steered  for  him  she  had 
seen  just  such  a  one.  Now  she  heard  the  plashing  of  the  oars, 
the  sound  of  many  waters  in  her  ears,  she  thought  she  was 
drowning. 

When  she  recovered  consciousness,  in  not  more  than  a 
few  seconds,  she  was  lying  on  the  floor,  and  the  matron  was 
kneeling  beside  her. 

"Give  me  those  smelling  salts !  Don't  be  frightened,  my 
dear,  lie  still ;  you  only  came  over  a  little  faint.  If  s  the  first 
time  you've  been  in  a  hospital,  perhaps?  You'll  be  all  right 
in  a  minute  or  two." 

She  looked  such  a  child,  her  face  and  lips  had  grown 
chalk-coloured,  her  lips  trembled,  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Fetch  up  Dr.  Eeid.  He  is  still  downstairs,"  the  matron 
said  hurriedly  to  one  of  the  sisters. 

Eunice  managed  to  say  that  she  did  not  want  a  doctor, 
that  she  was  getting  better.  A  little  colour  was  coming  back 
to  her  cheeks,  and  she  tried  to  get  up. 

"  Drink  this,  drink  it  up ;  it  won't  harm  you." 

The  matron  gave  her  sal  volatile,  and  she  took  it  grate- 
fully. Now  she  felt  only  that  nobody  must  know.  Some  ter- 
rible disgrace  had  fallen  upon  them,  upon  them  all.  For  the 
moment  she  could  hardly  remember  what  it  was.  She  wanted 
to  get  home,  to  be  with  Aunt  Agatha.  Nobody  must  ever 
know.  Slie  could  not  collect  her  thoughts,  but  Biddy,  with 
the  baby  in  her  arms,  spoke  to  her  again. 

"  Ye'll  belave  it  now,"  she  said.  "  Mind  ye,  if  s  not  him 
I'm  blamin'." 

"  Make  her  be  quiet !  " 

She  did  not  know  to  whom  she  was  speaking,  but  she 


EULL  SWING  281 

knew  she  would  faint  again  if  another  word  was  said,  she 
could  not  bear  another  word. 

"  Make  her  be  quiet,"  she  said  again,  with*  her  white  lips. 

The  matron  told  Biddy  to  be  silent,  spoke  to  her  sharply. 
The  scene  drew  Avondering  eyes,  the  matron  was  aware  of  it, 
and  half-led,  half -carried  the  girl  to  her  own  sanctum. 

Eunice  was  grateful  for  the  quiet.  She  felt*  extraordinarily 
shaken  and  ashamed,  the  vertigo  preventing  her  thinking 
clearly. 

"  You  are  coming  round  nicely  now." 

"  You — you  won't  let  her  come  in !  " 

"  Nobody  can  come  in  here ;  you  lie  down  a  bit  on  the 
sofa.  You're  coming  round,  getting  better,  you  know.  Did 
she  startle  or  frighten  you?  "We  don't  know  an}i;hing  about 
her  here.  She  was  brought  in  the  day  Lord  Grindelay  came 
home." 

Eunice  shut  her  eyes. 

"  That's  right,  rest.  You  would  feel  quite*  different  if  you 
could  sleep  for  five  minutes.     Come*  a  long  way,  have  you  ?  " 

Quite  a  capable  and  good  woman  this  hospital  matron, 
but  on  fire  with  curiosity,  simply  on  fire  with  it. 

"  I  want  to  get  home,"  Eunice  said  piteously,  after  a  few 
moments.  She  found  herself  crying,  tears  oozing  through  her 
shut  eyes.  She  wanted  her  aunt;  nobody  but  Aunt  Agatlia 
could  tell  her  what  to  do.  To  this  girl  Lady  Grindelay  must 
have  been  something  of  a  mother,  for  now  all  she  wanted 
was  the  shelter  of  her  arms,  to  creep  into  them,  whisper  her 
dreadful  story,  be  told  that  the  meaning  of  it  was  not  what 
it  seemed. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Lady  Grindelat  was  just  coming  out  of  the  hot-house, 
wrapped  in  a  shawl,  with  Reynolds  as  well  as  Sanders  in 
attendance.  There  was  no  doubt  now  about  the  Odonto- 
glossom;  the  plant  was  full  of  spikes,  the  miracle  had  come 
to  pass.  For  years  they  had  thought  it  dead;  then  it  seemed 
to  be  only  asleep.  Every  spring  after  that  there  was  sap  in  the 
stem ;  with  the  winter  the  living  moisture  dried  up.  Now,  all 
at  once  there  was  definite  promise  of  flower. 

"  It  will  be  in  full  bloom  for  the  wedding,"  she  was  saying 
to  Sanders  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  lodge. 

"  In  blue  flower,  such  a  sight  as  never  was  seen,"  Sanders 
answered,  almost  awed  at  the  greatness  of  their  good  fortune. 
"  There's  not  another  specimen  in  England."  Sanders  was 
growing  old,  as  she  was  herself.  He  was  garrulous  about  his 
successes,  and  detained  her  to  talk  of  them.  He  had  had 
many  prizes  and  triumphs,  but  this  would  top  them  all. 

"  I  hear  the  carriage  returning  with  Miss  Eunice ;  I  will 
tell  her  at  once.  There  may  be  a  spray,  perhaps,  to  lay  on 
the  wedding  cake." 

That  sometliing  was  wrong  she  knew  in  a  moment.  In- 
tuition told  her  even  before  she  saw  the  matron  in  her  nurse's 
bonnet  beside  Eunice  in  the  carriage  coming  up  the  drive. 

"  There  has  been  an  accident!    My  son!!  " 

Sanders  put  out  an  arm,  but  Reynolds  was  hefore  him. 

"  Don't  you  agitate  yourself,  milady ;  she  is  sitting  upright. 
It  can't  be  anything.    I'll  go." 

Reynolds  thought  of  nothing  but  her  mistress ;  she  tried  to 
keep  her  back. 

Reynolds  was  beside  the  slow-moving  carriage,  the  matron 
was  already  explaining,  before  Lady  Grindelay,  proceeding 
more  slowly,  got  up  to  them. 

"  It's  all  right ;  there  has  been  no  accident,"  Reynolds  called 
out. 

282 


FULL  SWING  283 

"It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  in  a  hospital,"  the 
matron  told  Keynolds.  "  She  fainted  right  away.  I  thought 
it  better  to  bring  her  home  myself." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  do  so.  We  will  take  charge 
of  her  now;  I  am  sure  it  is  nothing."  Lady  Grindelay  heard 
the  explanation  and  replied  with  dignity. 

She  pretended  to  believe  that  a  first  visit  to  a  hospital  had 
brought  that  scared  and  piteous  look  into  tlie  girl's  eyes. 

"  Auntie,"  the  voice  was  tremulous,  appealing.  If  the 
matron  was  curious,  Lady  Grindelay  did  not  intend  that  her 
curiosity  should  be  satisfied.  She  knew  Eeynolds  was  to  be 
trusted.  She  directed  her  to  take  the  matron  away  to  the 
morning-room,  and  look  after  her.  Her  own  curiosity  or 
anxiety  could  wait.  Waiting  is  a  lesson  old  people  have 
learned. 

"  We  will  go  into  the  drawing-room.  You  shall  tell  me 
what  has  happened."  She  spoke  soothingly ;  she  saw  the  girl 
had  been  badly  frightened  or  shaken,  not  hurt. 

"  Can't  we  be  alone,  auntie  ?    We  must  be  alone." 

Now  she  was  in  the  drawing-room,  no  one  tliere  but  herself 
and  her  aunt. 

"  Don't  try  to  talk  yet." 

"  Auntie !  "    She  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 

"  I  am  here  beside  you." 

"  You  won't  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

Now  that  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  Aunt  Agatha 
beside  her,  Eunice  began  to  feel  better.  She  had  never  fainted 
before. 

"  It  was  so  dreadful."  She  put  out  a  shaking  hand,  and 
Agatha  took  it,  held  it  in  her  own  that  had  suddenly  grown 
chilled. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  not  seem  so  bad  when  you  have  told  me." 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  I  can't  ever  tell  you." 

"  Something  has  shocked  or  alarmed  you  ? " 

The  girl  was  ashamed  to  speak.  It  could  not  be  what  she 
thought  or  feared.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  feared.  Auntie 
would  know,  but  could  she  tell  her — could  ehe? 


284  FULL  SWING 

"  There  is  no  hurry." 

Agatha  kept  herself  well  in  hand,  although  already  she 
was  afraid,  desperately  afraid. 

"  It  was  after  Desmond  left  you ?  " 

Eunice  answered,  after  a  pause : 

"  Yes." 

What  a  long  time  it  seemed — what  a  long  time  since  she 
had  stood  on  the  step  of  the  railway  carriage  to  kiss  Desmond 
good-bye ! 

"  After  you  left  Desmond " 

"  Yes." 

"  Someone  met  you,  or  spoke  to  you — frightened  you  ?  " 

A  fear  of  the  truth  came  to  her,  not  the  whole  truth,  but 
a  fear  that  from  the  quarter  she  had  dreaded  trouble  it  might 
have  come.  Where  the  pain  in  her  side  was  always,  it  deep- 
ened ;  the  fear  seemed  to  fasten  there  like  the  teeth  of  a  rodent. 
It  was  hard  to  sit  upright,  hard  not  to  call  out.  For  such  pain 
as  this  she  had  her  morphia  draught;  but  she  must  not  move 
or  leave  the  girl  until  she  knew  the  truth.  Eunice  had  said 
they  must  be  by  themselves.  Not  even  Eeynolds  must  come 
with  the  draught  until  she  had  heard  what  it  was. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  Once  Eunice  began  she  could 
not  leave  off,  pouring  out  a  torrent  of  words,  holding  on  to 
Agatha's  skirt  presently  as  if  she  had  been  a  child  again, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  skirt. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  it  could  not  be  true. 
I  don't  know  why  I  fainted.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it. 
Desmond  could  not  have  a  wife,  and — and  a  child,  could  he, 
auntie?  Why  does  it  look  like  him?  What  does  it  mean? 
Be  angry  with  me;  tell  me  I  ought  not  to  have  listened.  As 
I'm  telling  you  it  is  all  becoming  unreal.  Desmond  has  never 
loved  anybody  but  me,  never.  He  couldn't  have,  could  he? 
Why  am  I  shaking  with  terror  ?    Wliy  aren't  you  answering  ?  " 

Agatha  put  her  hand  to  her  side  where  the  pain  was. 

"  You  don't  think  you  could  ring  for  Reynolds,  do  you  ?  " 
She  spoke  faintly.  Eunice  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  got 
quickly  to  her  feet  and  to  the  bell. 

There   was   silence   until   Eeynolds   came   nmning;   the 


FULL  SWING  285 

draught  was  quickly  administered.  Lady  Grindelay  stayed 
quietly  in  her  chair,  detaining  Eunice,  sending  Reynolds  away 
again  quite  soon. 

The  draught  did  its  work.  Eunice  had  hardly  time  to  be 
frightened.  Eeynolds  was  a  soothing  and  tactful  person; 
there  never  had  been,  and  never  will  be  again,  a  maid  like  her. 
She  knew  there  was  something  lying  between  these  two  just 
now,  that  Lady  Grindelay  needed  strengthening  for  it,  and 
that  she  must  leave  them  alone. 

"  I  am  all  right  now,  or  I  shall  be  in  a  few  minutes.  Do 
not  go,  Eunice;  do  not  be  afraid — it  is  nothing.  What  you 
have  told  me  startled  me  a  little,  that  was  all.  Eeynolds  may 
go.  Lie  down  again;  I  shall  be  able  to  talk  to  you  in  a 
minute  or  two." 

Lady  Grindelay  sat  still  until  the  morphia  began  to  do  its 
work;  thinking  what  to  tell  the  girl,  how  much,  or  how  little. 
In  three  days  she  would  be  Desmond's  wife — in  less  than  three 
days.  It  was  she  who  had  insisted  upon  secrecy,  and  brought 
them  to  this  pass.  She  only  thought  now  how  to  satisfy  Eunice 
without  injuring  Desmond  in  her  eyes. 

"  There  is  certainly  some  truth  in  the  story  Desmond's 
old  Irish  nurse  has  told  you,"  she  began. 

"  Some  truth  !  " 

Beside  her  aunt,  in  this  quiet  drawing-room,  Eunice  had 
begun  already  to  discard,  to  disbelieve  the  story.  ISTow  the 
colour  flooded  her,  and  her  heart  began  pounding  again. 

"You  will  be  married  to  him  soon  now;  perhaps  it  1=5 
as  well  you  should  know.  You  must  listen  sympathetically, 
try  to  understand.  Boys  and  men  are  not  sheltered  like  girls 
in  their  homes.  They  have  temptations ;  there  are  bad  women 
in  the  world — women  with  whom  you  have  never  been  brought 
into  contact." 

"  But  Desmond,  Desmond!  " 

Poor  Agatha  felt  the  difficulty,  the  impossibility  of  ex- 
plaining what  she  herself  so  little  understood.  Yet  she  had 
to  explain. 

"  Desmond  met  one  of  these  bad  women — one  of  the  worst 
of  them " 


286  I'UI^  SWING 

"  Is  it  true  that  Desmond  is  married  ?  It  isn't  true.  Mar- 
ried!" Her  eyes  were  piteous  with  incredulity,  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  No,  it  is  not  true ;  of  course  it  is  not  true,"  Agatha  an- 
swered dully.  "  Since  you  and  Desmond  are  to  be  married 
in  three  days'  time !  " 

The  colour  rushed  hot  to  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  she  was 
ashamed  even  to  face  her  aunt  because  she  had  asked  such  a 
question.  She  was  on  her  knees  now,  her  face  in  her  aunt's 
lap.  Lady  Grindelay  strove  for  the  right  words,  the  words 
that  would  explain  and  at  the  same  time  exonerate  him. 

"  It  is  dreadful — ^but  not  as  bad  as  you  think." 

"  It  was  not — it  was  not  his  baby  ?  "  Eunice  stammered  out. 

"  There  comes  a  time  when  a  girl  has  to  learn  of  such 
things,  of  the  difference  in  men's  temperaments  from  ours." 
The  poor  woman  remembered  how  she  had  learnt  it,  with  how 
little  knowledge  or  preparation.  "I  have  tried  to  keep  you 
ignorant,  innocent;  perhaps  I  have  succeeded  too  well.  You 
must  not  take  it  hardly;  you  are  not  thinking  unkindly  of 
Desmond,  are  you?  You  know  how  much  he  cares  for  you; 
he  told  me  so  when  you  were  little  more  than  a  child.  You  were 
then,  you  are  now,  so  much  more  to  him  than  I  am " 

"  It  was  not  his  ?  "  Even  the  delicate  ears  were  crimson, 
and  the  words  were  breathed,  hardly  spoken. 

"  It  may  be ;  it  is  possible."  Agatha  could  not  answer  more 
definitely.    It  was  difficult  to  answer  at  all. 

"  You  must  not  judge  him  without  knowing  more." 

She  paused.  Some  of  her  life  she  must  unveil — the  dese- 
crated places. 

"  Desmond  has  not  been  imfaithful  to  you.  This  hap- 
pened at  the  time  when  he  had  no  hope  of  winning  you,  when 
I  was  standing  between  you.     During  my  own  married  life  I 

learnt  that  wives  have  to  be  tolerant "    But  she  had  not 

been  tolerant,  and  hardly  knew  liow  to  urge  it. 

Eunice  could  not  bear  to  hear  the  words  to  which  she  was 
listening. 

"  You — j'ou  knew !  "  It  was  incredible,  worse  than  every- 
thing else. 


FULL  SWING  287 

"  It  has  to  be  forgotten.    We  never  meant  you  to  hear  of  it." 

"  Desmond  never  meant  that  I  should  know  ?  "  Her  voice 
was  strangled. 

"  No ;  we  thought  it  better.  It  is  an  ugly  story,  and  I 
have  tried  to  keep  the  ugliness  of  the  world  from  you.  The 
woman  and  her  child  have  been  provided  for.  If  Biddy  came 
here  to  make  trouble  between  you  two,  she  must  not  succeed. 
She  must  be  sent  away  again  at  once,  the  child  with  her,  before 
Desmond  comes  back.  Nothing  must  come  between  you  two 
any  more,"  she  said  slowly.    The  drug  was  working. 

Eunice  got  to  her  feet.  She  looked  pale,  and  she  could  not 
speak.  She  was  overwhelmed,  she  still  felt  sick,  but  no  longer 
faint. 

Lady  Grindelay  went  on: 

"  That  is  right ;  you  must  be  brave.  It  has  been  a  shock 
to  you ;  it  was  a  shock  to  me  when  I  first  heard.  If  you  must 
speak  to  Desmond,  wait  until  after  you  are  married,  until 
after  Thursday.  You  will  understand  better  when  you  are  a 
married  woman ;  you  can  hardly  mention  it  to  him  until  then. 
He  will  be  distressed  to  learn  you  know,  and  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  wish  to  distress  him.  They  shall  be  sent  back.  You 
must  not  think  of  it  again ;  there  are  such  stories  in  most  men's 
lives.  Desmond  was  hardly  to  blame,  it  ...  it  is  the 
woman's  child." 

Very  white  were  Eunice's  lips. 

"  And — and  Desmond's  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  must  forget  it." 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  forget." 

Agatha  was  getting  a  little  drowsy. 

"  He  will  explain  everything  after  you   are  married." 

Eunice's  lips  trembled. 

"  I  can't  marry  him.  You  know  I  can't  marry  him,  after 
this,"  she  broke  out  desperately. 

Her  aunt  did  not  know  it. 

"  Yes,  you  will,  it  must  not  make  any  difference.  I  can't 
talk  to  you — not  just  now,  but  you  must  be  guided  by  me. 
The  fault  was  mine;  I  stood  between  you " 

"  Desmond  himself  is  standing  between  us." 


288  FULL  SWING 

She  knelt  again  suddenly. 

"  Auntie,  I  haven't  got  anybody  but  you.  Help  m^.  Send 
me  away  somewhere ;  let  me  go.  I  can't  meet  him,  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  him." 

"  Don't  say  anything." 

''  Oh,  I  must— I  must." 

"  You  will  forget  it.  You  will  be  as  happy  as  ever  in  a 
few  days,  happier  than  you  have  ever  been." 

"  It  is  impossible — ^you  must  know  it  is  impossible !  Oh, 
auntie,  help  me !    I  don't  even  want  to  see  him." 

"  You  must  say  nothing,  think  nothing,  feel  nothing,  until 
after  Thursday." 

"  Not  on  Thursday,  at  least  not  on  Thursday,"  the  girl  said 
wildly.     "  I— I  can't  bear  it." 

Agatha  struggled  against  her  drowsiness;  she  sat  bolt 
upright.  The  pain  that  the  morphia  smothered  had  been  very 
bad,  almost  unbearable,  a  death  pang,  perhaps.  She  must  see 
everything  right  between  them  before  she  went;  repair  her 
mistakes.  The  wedding  must  not  be  postponed,  not  on  any 
account.  Her  anxiety  mastered  pain  and  drug.  She  wanted 
to  speak  firmly,  but  to  the  girl  she  seemed  to  speak  harshly, 
inexorably. 

"  Nothing  must  prevent  the  wedding  taking  place  on 
Thursday." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Pekhaps  Lady  Grindelay  was  too  old  to  realise  what  a  girl 
feels  when  she  sees  sin  for  the  first  time;  not  vaguely  and 
far  off,  as  kneeling  in  church  and  praying  to  be  forgiven  for 
something  that  is  only  a  word;  but  close  and  concrete,  out- 
raging and  shocking  delicacy.  Perhaps  Agatha's  experiences 
with  Lord  Grindelay  had  unconsciously,  and  notwithstanding 
herself,  coarsened  her  a  little,  so  that  she  did  not  see  how 
such  a  thing  as  this  would  appear  to  a  girl  like  Eunice. 

Eunice  made  no  further  appeal.  Agatha  drowsed  a  little 
in  her  easy  chair  in  the  drawing-room.  When  she  roused 
herself,  to  find  Ee}Tiolds  waiting  to  take  her  to  bed,  the  girl 
had  gone. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Miss  Eunice?  She  has  gone  to  her  own  room.  She'll 
come  and  say  good-night  to  you  when  you  are  settled  up." 

She  came.  Her  good-night  was  close  and  tender,  more, 
not  less,  loving  than  usual.    Agatha  detained  her. 

"  You  are  going  to  do  what  I  tell  you  ?  " 

Eunice  kissed  her  again,  but  her  manner  was  evasive. 

"  Can't  Desmond's  baby  come  here  ?  You  say  that — that 
the  mother  left  it,  will  not  come  back,  isn't  good  or — or  true. 
But  the  baby  is  not  wicked " 

The  big  bedroom  was  very  dark  and  quiet,  and  Agatha 
could  not  see  the  pale  determination  of  the  girl's  face  nor  the 
likeness  to  herself  that  showed  now  strongly  upon  it. 

"  It  ought  to  come  here,"  she  continued. 

Agatha  was  as  sure  as  that  once;  Agatha,  too,  had  been 
certain  that  right  and  wrong  were  colours  as  clear  as  black  and 
white,  that  there  were  no  greys  nor  drabs  nor  indefinite,  inde- 
cipherable shades  in  either. 

"  It  is  your  children  who  must  be  here — yours  and  Des- 
mond's," she  answered.    "  But  do  not  let  us  talk  about  it  any 
more,"  she  added,  as  if  the  matter  were  closed,  as  if,  when  she 
was  satisfied,  Eunice  must  also  be. 
19  289 


290  FULL  SWING 

The  exertion  of  coming  upstairs  had  restarted  the  rodent; 
again  the  teeth  were  gnawing,  and  she  wished  the  girl  to  go  so 
that  she  might  groan,  so  that  she  need  not  hide  her  pain. 

"We  will  talk  of  it  again,  when  you  come  home  from 
your  honeymoon.    I  thought  like  you  once." 
"  It  isn't  right." 

"  Leave  me  to  know  best,  to  act  for  the  best." 
Eunice  kissed  her  again,  and  left  her  afterwards  without 
another  word. 

That  night,  for  the  first  time,  the  morphia  failed,  and  at 
two  in  the  morning  Dr.  Eeid  was  summoned. 

"  She  is  taking  the  most  terrible  risks,"  he  told  Keynolds 
before  he  went  upstairs.  "  The  operation  should  have  been 
done  last  week,  when  she  was  in  town.  I  have  never  seen  such 
obstinacy."  Such  courage,  he  meant,  for  he  knew  the  reason 
for  it. 

"  You  will  have  to  patch  me  up  until  after  the  wedding," 
she  gasped,  even  to-night.  "  You  must  keep  me  going  until 
after  Thursday." 

He  said  he  would  do  his  best.  His  best  sent  her  to  sleep 
about  six  in  the  morning,  and  the  orders  were  that  she  was 
not  to  be  disturbed  for  anything. 

Eunice  came  irresolutely  to  the  door  about  half-past  eight, 
stood  outside,  listening.  There  was  no  one  to  see  her.  She 
knelt  before  the  shut  door,  and  sent  a  kiss  or  a  prayer  through ; 
her  throat  was  contracted  with  the  sob  she  held  back. 

"  Good-bye,  auntie,  good-bye  !  "  she  whispered.  "  I  must 
go — I  must." 

She  went  along  the  drive  presently,  one  of  the  gardener's 
boys  carrying  a  bag  or  parcel  for  her.  But  there  was  little 
unusual  about  that;  there  were  always  parcels  going  to  Little 
Marley  or  to  the  Guild  in  London. 

The  order  had  been  given  overnight,  and  when  the  carriage 
went  to  the  station  at  eleven  to  fetch  Desmond,  Agatha  was 
still  sleeping.  But  she  heard  it  return.  The  first  words  she 
spoke  showed  she  had  wakened  with  her  mind  alert. 

"  That  is  the  carriage  coming  back  from  the  station.    Are 


FULL  SWING  291 

you  there,  Reynolds  ?  "  The  room  was  still  in  darkness.  "  I 
am  very  thirsty.  I  am  sure  he  gave  me  too  much  morphia.  Get 
me  something  to  drink — ^tea,  or  lemonade,  or  ice.  But  look  out 
of  the  window  first;  tell  me  if  they  have  come  back  together. 
Did  she  go  to  the  station  to  meet  him?  I  want  to  see  him. 
I  shall  get  up  presently.    Have  you  anything  to  drink  there?  " 

The  lemonade  was  by  her  side,  Reynolds  handed  a  feeding- 
cup  to  her  before  doing  anything  else,  and  she  drank  thirstily. 

"  Do  you  see  them  ?  " 

When  Reynolds  pulled  aside  the  blind,  whoever  had  occu- 
pied the  carriage  was  already  out  of  sight;  the  carriage  was 
empty. 

"  Find  out,  will  you  ?  Find  out  if  they  came  back  to- 
gether." 

It  needed  all  Reynolds's  tact  and  intelligence  when  she 
returned  from  her  errand  to  keep  back  the  result  from  her 
mistress.  Young  Lord  Grindelay  had  come  back  alone,  and  he 
was  fretting  and  fuming,  questioning  everybody  to  know  what 
had  become  of  Miss  Eunice,  why  she  had  not  been  at  the 
station,  where  she  was  to  be  found.  Already  there  was  doubt 
in  the  air  of  the  house — uncertainty;  it  was  extraordinary 
how  quickly  the  household  knew  that  there  was  something 
wrong. 

''  Miss  Eunice  went  to  meet  him ;  she  went  quite  early," 
was  all  Lady  Grindelay  heard  until  she  had  been  given  her 
breakfast.  She  insisted  then  upon  getting  up  and  dressing. 
Reynolds  stood  waiting  upon  her,  not  arguing  or  contradicting, 
for  she  knew  it  would  be  no  use. 

"  Only  one  day  more,"  Lady  Grindelay  said ;  '^  you  won't 
have  to  worry  about  me  after  that."  She  knew  by  the  way 
Reynolds  was  looking  at  her  that  she  showed  the  effort  it  was 
to  stand  up  and  dress,  to  sit  in  her  chair  before  the  glass  and 
have  her  hair  done.  "  After  to-morroAv  there  is  only  Thurs- 
day.J 

"  If  you  can  keep  up  until  to-morrow,"  said  the  maid 
doubtfully. 

"  I  can  keep  up  well  enough." 

"  You  won't  go  out  ?  " 


292  FULL  SWING 

*^  No.  I'll  go  into  the  drawing-room.  I  suppose  yon  will 
be  satisfied  if  I  lie  on  the  sofa  ?  " 

"  You'll  only  do  that  if  you  can't  stand  up ! "  Reynolds 
grumbled. 

Lady  Grindelay  finished  dressing,  and  then  went  down- 
stairs, Eeynolds  carrying  a  shawl.  She  had  managed  to  keep 
anyone  from  breaking  in  upon  tliem  until  then.  Inquiries 
were  being  made  in  all  directions. 

Miss  Eunice  was  not  at  the  station ;  she  was  not  in  the 
house;  she  had  gone  out  early,  taking  a  bag  with  her.  Whis- 
pers were  gathering  ominously.  The  housemaid  found  a  letter 
on  the  dressing-table  when  Desmond  sent  her  up  for  the  third 
time  to  see  when  Miss  Eunice  went  out,  whether  she  had  on 
walking  or  garden  shoes.  Already  he  was  beyond  impatience. 
The  letter  was  handed  to  him.  The  housemaid  did  not  know 
why  she  had  not  seen  it  before.  She  added,  looking  at  him 
curiously,  tliat  the  waste-paper  basket  was  full  of  torn  papers. 
"  Miss  Eunice  must  have  sat  up  half  the  night  writing." 

The  letter  was  bulky,  and  when  Desmond  had  it  in  his 
hand  it  seemed  at  once  to  weigh  on  his  heart.  He  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  drawing-room  when  Agatha  came  in,  and  he 
went  to  her  swiftly. 

^'  What  does  it  all  mean,  mother  ?    What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

^'  Her  ladyship  has  not  been  very  well  in  the  night."  Eey- 
nolds tried  to  avert  any  shock  from  her,  to  soften  or  stay 
his  unheeding  impetuosity. 

"  Where  is  Eunice  gone  ?  Why  isn't  she  here  ?  She  prom- 
ised to  meet  me." 

"'  Not  here !  Eunice  not  here !  Where  is  she  then  ?  " 
Lady  Grindelay  asked.  The  exertion  of  coming  downstairs  had 
tired  her,  and  her  wish,  of  course,  was  to  hide  it  from  him. 
But  she  need  not  have  feared ;  he  never  gave  her  a  thought. 

"  She  went  out  early.  She  wasn't  at  the  station.  She  left 
a  letter  on  her  dressing-table." 

"  A  letter  ?    You  can  go,  Eeynolds.    Give  it  to  me," 

*'  Mother,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

^'  Give  me  time,  Desmond  !    Give  me  time." 

"  Open  the  letter.     Perhaps  there  is  one  for  me  inside. 


FULL  SWING  293 

Where  has  she  gone  ?    Why  ?    She  can't  have  heard — it  isn't 
that!    Mother?" 

"  She  heard  it  yesterday.  I  thought  I  made  matters  all 
right ;  but  I've  been  ill."  Her  hand  went  to  her  side  even  now, 
and  the  letter  dropped  from  it. 

Desmond  picked  it  up.  He  thought  her  maddeningly  slow 
in  opening  it. 

"  There  is  one  for  you  too."     She  handed  it  to  him. 
***** 

When  Reynolds  went  out  of  the  drawing-room  she  saw 
a  woman  standing  in  the  hall,  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her 
arlns,  arguing  with  the  butler,  asserting  doggedly  that  she 
would  see  his  lordship,  that  she  was  going  to  sit  there  till  he 
came,  that  she  wouldn't  go  until  she  had  seen  him.  No  one 
had  been  able  to  manage  or  move  her,  not  the  butler  nor  either 
of  tlie  footmen.  Eeynolds  coaxed  her  away.  What  those 
two  were  saving  to  each  other  she  did  not  know,  but  she  knew 
they  must  be  undisturbed.  She  coaxed  Biddy  away  from  the 
hall,  praising  the  baby  and  talking  to  it,  promising  that  Lord 
Grindelay  should  not  leave  the  house  without  being  told. 

"  You  come  up  to  my  room,  where  you  can  watch  the  front 
door.  He's  engaged  now,  very  particularly  engaged,  but  you 
shan't  miss  him." 

While  the  bright-plumaged  birds  were  flitting  about  in  the 
conservatory,  uttering  now  and  again  their  strange  cries,  in  the 
adjacent  drawing-room  Agatha  sat  upright  on  the  sofa  and 
read  her  letter.  Desmond  stood  beside  the  mantelpiece  and 
read  his.  Afterguards  there  was  silence,  quite  a  long  silence, 
between  them. 

"  She  has  left  us,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  There  does  not  seem  to  be  any  doubt  about  that."  Des- 
mond's tone  was  very  bitter.  "  She  won't  have  anything  to  do 
with  me."  He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand,  his  face  was 
very  white. 

He  had  a  moment's  irrational  and  overwhelming  rage,  as 
the  young  are  liable  to  when  things  go  badly  with  them  or  they 
feel  they  are  suffering  under  an  injustice,  and  it  had  to  find 
vent. 


294  FULL  SWING 

"It's  all  your  fault,"  he  said  savagely.  "You  wouldn't 
let  me  tell  her." 

He  crushed  the  letter  and  spoke  out  of  his  misery  and 
biterness. 

"  She  says  I've  deceived  her.  It  was  you  made  me  deceive 
her." 

"  I  know,  I  am  sorry.  May  I  see  your  letter  ?  "  She  held 
out  a  tremulous  hand  for  it. 

He  sat  beside  her  whilst  she  read  it,  already  he  was  ashamed 
of  his  words. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  mother.  I  don't  know  what  I'm  say- 
ing ;  I'm  wild  with  thinking  what  she  must  have  felt  about  it. 
Of  course,  I  didn't  mean  to  reproach  you." 

Agatha  read  the  letter  witliout  answering,  perhaps  witliout 
hearing.    That  he  was  sitting  beside  her  was  all  she  knew. 

"  It  will  come  right,"  she  said,  "  you  shall  not  be  unhappy, 
I  will  put  things  right  between  you.    Have  confidence  in  me." 

''I  saw  the  letter  your  wife  wrote  to  your  old  nurse 
hefoi'e  she  went  to  you  in  South  Africa.  And  I've  seen 
your  hdby.  You  never  told  me  about  either  of  them. 
It  makes  no  difference  to  ms  if  you  loere  not  married  to 
her;  it's  just  the  same.  You  were  deceiving  me  all  the 
time — I  always  told  you  everything,  even  my  thoughts. 
I  am  too  unhappy  to  write,  hut  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again.  I  could  never  believe  anything  you  said.  I  don't 
want  anything  more  to  do  with  you." 

It  had  been  easy  to  write  those  few  lines  to  Desmond  in  the 
white  heat  of  her  revulsion  from  him.  But  to  write  to  her 
aunt  had  not  been  easy. 

"  You  tried  to  Tceep  everything  from  me  always,  but  I 
am  not  so  innocent  or  ignorant  as  you  suppose;  that's 
why  I  am  going  away.  I  couldn't  bear  to  marry  Desmond 
now,  and  I  know  if  I  stay  you  would  persuade,  or  make 
me.  You  think  of  nothing  but  tvhat  Desmond  wants. 
I  am  not  ungrateful,  I  know  everything  you  have  done 


FULL  SWING  395 

for  me.  I  don't  know  how  to  leave  you,  to  go  away.  But 
I  must.  I  can't  meet  Desmond.  We've  always  told  each 
other  everything,  that's  ivhat  I  thought,  and  this  makes 
everything  he  has  ever  said  seem  untrue.  Auntie  dear, 
let  me  go,  don't  try  to  folloiv  or  find  me.  Take  Desmond's 
haby  instead — it  is  a  darling.  If  I  had  not  felt  so  dread- 
fully, I  could  have  taken  her  in  my  arms,  and  kissed  her, 
■the  poor  Utile  haby!  She  ought  to  he  at  Marley  instead  of 
me.  She  tvould  he  there  if  it  ivasn't  hecau^e  you.  want  me 
to  marry  Desmond  and  live  at  Marley.  She  isn't  wicked; 
she  hasn't  done  anything  wrong.  It  is  all  so  dreadful, 
hut  the  ivorst  is  about  the  hahy.  I  am  sure  you  will  have 
her  if  I  stay  away.  You'll  get  to  care  for  her,  like  you  got 
to  care  for  Desmond.  You  care  for  him  more  than  you  do 
for  me.  I'm  glad  about  that  and  that  he  loves  you.  I 
know  you  are  ill  and  trying  to  hide  it,  I  have  known  all 
the  time  how  brave  and  great  you  are.  But  I  can't  stay 
in  the  same  house  with  Desmond  and  his  hahy;  the  haby 
ought  to  be  at  Marley.  This  is  such  a  stupid  letter;  I 
seem  to  say  the  same  things  over  and  over  again,  but  I've 
been  all  night  trying  to  write  it.  I  wish  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  miss  me,  and  then  I  don't  wish  it;  I  couldn't 
bear  to  he  forgotten.  I  know  it  was  all  kept  secret  for  my 
sake — by  you,  at  any  rate.  I  seem  to  understand  every- 
thing and  to  forgive  everything  except  Desmond.  I  hate 
even  to  think  of  him  and  all  that  we  were  to  each  other. 


The  letter  broke  off  abruptly.    Desmond  refused  to  read  it. 

"  What's  the  use  ?  I  don't  want  to  read  that  she  hates  the 
sight  of  me.    What  am  I  to  do  ?    How  can  I  make  it  right  ?  " 

Just  as  it  had  been  necessary  to  vent  his  first  anger,  so 
now  it  was  necessary  to  have  a  confidant  for  his  grief.  He  was 
appealing  to  her,  and  the  appeal  shook  her. 

"  I  can't  bear  it.  Mother,  we  must  get  her  back,  you  will 
get  her  back,  won't  you  ?    I  must  try  and  explain  it  to  her." 

"  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  You  will  make  her  forgive  me." 


396  FULL  SWING 

"  Or  me !  My  poor  son,  it  is  all  my  fault.  I  see  now, 
it  was  my  mistake,  not  yours.  I  was  short-sighted,  impulsive, 
but  I  thought  only  of  you — you  believe  that  ?  " 

"  I  can't  bear  it.  What  must  she  be  thinking  of  me  ?  "  And 
she  felt  that  a  sob  tore  her  breast.  She  wanted  to  put  her 
arms  about  him,  gather  his  head  to  her  breast.  But  always 
her  words  came  with  difficulty.  She  was  filled  with  tenderness, 
shaken  with  it,  but  all  she  got  out  was : 
"  It  will  all  come  right ;  it  must." 

"  Where  do  you  think  she  has  gone?  What  are  we  to  do?  " 
He  was  ashamed  of  his  breakdown,  and  got  up  from  her  side, 
from  the  sofa.    "  We  must  do  something." 

"  Is  anything  known  in  the  house  ?  "  Agatha  asked. 
"Jane  gave  me  the  letter,  said  she  must  have  sat  up  all 
night  writing.  Mother,  how  did  it  all  happen  ?  How  did  she 
get  to  know  ?  Who  told  her  ?  It  must  have  been  someone  who 
hated  me — us.  I  would  have  told  her  myself  one  day,  you 
know  I  would,  when  we  were  married.  She'd  have  forgiven 
me;  I  know  it.  I'd  have  made  her.  Gabrielle  is  married, 
Michael  McKay  told  me  so  last  night." 

"  It  was  the  child,  your  old  nurse  Biddy  showed  her  the 

baby.    It  seems  there  is  a  likeness " 

Lady  Grindelay  spoke  slowly,  with  difficulty.  She  found 
it  unbearable  to  think  it  was  she  who  was  responsible  for  Des- 
mond's pallor,  the  ravage  his  sudden  trouble  had  brought 
upon  the  young  face  she  loved.  She  felt  that  if  she  were  in 
health  she  could  comfort  him,  help  him.  If  only  the  pain 
would  leave  off  gnawing  at  her  for  a  moment  so  that  she  might 
think ! 

Desmond  went  on  unhappily : 

"  I  know  why  she  ran  away ;  it  isn't  only  my  not  telling 
her.  She's  got  it  into  her  head  I've  neglected  the  child,  Eunice 
adores  babies."  A  flush  dyed  his  forehead.  "  I  know  what 
she'll  have  been  thinking.  She's  right,  too.  Only  it  isn't 
exactly  as  it  seems.  He  was  exculpating  himself,  now  he  no 
longer  wished  to  blame  anybody  else.  "  I  never  thought  of  it 
at  all,  that's  the  truth  of  it.  When  Gabrielle  told  me  it  was 
coming,  I  made  her  marry  me.    I  thought  I  might  be  killed, 


FULL  SWING  297 

and  then — I  forgot  all  about  it.  It  wasn't  there,  you  see." 
He  paused,  and  his  mother  watched  him,  following  his  argu- 
ment, feeling  with  him,  suffering  with  him.  "  And  she  never 
said  a  word  about  it  to  mc  when  she  came  to  Waterval.  Do  you 
think  you'll  ever  be  able  to  make  Eunice  understand  ?  " 

"You  have  very  little  for  which  to  blame  yourself,"  his 
mother  answered.  "  I,  too,  never  gave  the  child  a  thought ; 
you  seemed  to  me  as  if  you  were  still  little  more  than  a  boy 
yourself." 

"  Mother,  help  me  to  find  Eunice,  to  speak  to  her  face  to 
face.    I  may  be  able  to  make  her  understand." 

"  We  will  find  her." 

"  But  if  we  can't  find  her?  " 

"  Don't  look  so  unhappy,  I  cannot  bear  it.  There  are  only 
one  or  two  people  to  whom  she  can  have  gone." 

"  You'll  get  her  back  to-day  ?  " 

"  To-day  or  to-morrow ;  soon." 

"  To-morrow  is  Thursday — our  wedding  day !  It  must 
be  to-day.  You  don't  know  how  I  feel  about  it."  But  his 
eyes  and  voice  told  her. 

"  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  I  want  her." 

"I  am  afraid  the  wedding  must  be  postponed,"  Lady 
G-rindelay  said  uncertainly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  But  I  must  find  her,  see  her,  speak 
to  her.    Nothing  ought  to  have  prevented  my  telling  her." 

"  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  wanted  her  to  see  you  as  I  do  now, 
as  I  ought  always  to  have  done,  without  flaw.     My  son " 

"  I  could  have  persuaded  you,  I  can't  humbug  myself,  I 
know  I  could  have  persuaded  you.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  didn't 
want  her  to  know," 

After  a  little  further  talk  Lady  Grindelay  began  to  plan 
how  to  account  for  the  postponement  of  the  wedding,  what 
explanation  must  be  given  to  the  neighbourhood. 

"  I  think  it  had  better  be  given  out  that  I  have  been  taken 
ill." 

He  cared  nothing  at  all  for  what  the  world  might  say. 


298  FULL  SWING 

"  But  you're  not  ill,"  he  objected.  "  Keynolds  said  you  had 
been,  but  that  was  only  her  fuss,  wasn't  it?  You  look  all 
right."  If  he  had  looked  at  her  more  closely  he  might  have 
thought  differently.  "  I  shall  want  you  to  help  me  with  her." 
She  was  well  enough  at  least  to  be  glad  he  needed  her  help. 

"  How  could  I  be  ill  if  you  need  me?  But  I  hear  Dr.  Eeid's 
brougham.    I  think  I  can  manage  to  persuade  him  that  I  am." 

"  It  will  come  right,  mother ;  say  you  think  it  will  come 
right  between  us."  He  was  so  desperately  in  need  of  comfort 
that  she  had  to  tell  him  again. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Leave  me  now,  I  must  talk  to  Dr. 
Eeid.  Don't  be  out  of  reach.  Telegraph  to  Andrew  McKay, 
advising  him  of  the  delay,  giving  my  health  as  the  reason.  I 
don't  think  he  will  be  surprised.  And — and — Desmond,  I 
think  you  will  have  to  speak  to  this  woman " 

"  Biddy  will  do  anything  I  tell  her.  If  only  I'd  seen  her 
before!  But  I  can't  do  anything  till  I  know  where  Eunice 
has  gone,  until  I've  seen  her,"  he  cried  out.  "  You  said  she  can 
only  have  gone  to  one  or  two  people  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  For  now  the  doctor  was  in  the  room,  and  Lady 
Grindelay  was  steady  in  her  intention  that  no  one  must  know 
what  had  occurred,  steady  in  her  belief  that  she  could  minimise 
its  seriousness.  "  I  have  been  telling  my  son  of  that  attack 
last  night.  Do  you  think  I  am  fit  to  go  through  the  fatigue 
of  the  wedding?  You  may  speak  candidly.  If  it  has  to  be 
put  off,  he  will  face  it.  He  wants  to  do  whatevei*  is  best  for 
me." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  the  last  fortnight," 
the  old  doctor  answered  gruffly.  "  You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  grown  sensible  at  last,  that  I  can 
send  for  Sir  Simeon  ?  " 

She  silenced  him  hastily. 

"  We  can  talk  about  Sir  Simeon  afterwards.  I  only  wanted 
to  tell  you  that  my  son  will  make  the  sacrifice.  They  must 
have  a  quiet  wedding  later  on.  Shall  I  go  back  to  bed  again  ? 
Is  that  what  you  advise  ?  " 

"  You  ought  never  to  have  got  up." 


FULL  SWING  399 

Desmond  thought  she  was  liumbugging  tlie  doctor.  That 
is,  if  he  thought  ahout  her  at  all, 

"Very  well,  then.  Perhaps  you  are  right;  even  doctors 
are  right  sometimes,  I  suppose.  I  Avill  give  in  to  you  just  this 
once.  And  Desmond " — he  was  leaving  the  room,  but  she 
called  him  back — "  don't  go  away  for  a  moment.  Don't  omit 
to  wire  Andrew  McKay  to  come  down.  He  will  help  you  with 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  postponement.  And  go 
up  to  the  station.  My  niece  has  gone  to  London,"  she  said 
quite  caJmly  to  the  doctor ;  for  all  that  her  eyes  and  her  face, 
to  anyone  who  knew  her,  belied  her  calmness.  "  They  missed 
each  other.  My  son  has  only  just  returned.  He  caught  the 
early  train." 

Desmond  thought  she  was  very  wonderful;  she  seemed 
to  think  of  everything.  All  he  could  do  was  to  follow  her 
instructions.  She  had  said  she  was  sure  it  would  all  come 
right,  and  his  misery  was  a  little  assuaged  by  her  assurance. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  drawing-room,  leaving  his  mother 
with  the  doctor,  Reynolds  met  him. 

"  Can  you  come  upstairs  a  moment  ? "  she  asked  him 
respectfully,  a  little  mysteriously. 

"  I'm  just  off  to  the  station.  Is  it  anything  special  ?  I've 
got  a  telegram  to  send,  too." 

"  It  is  rather  special,  if  you  could  spare  a  minute." 

Reynolds  was  a  privileged  person. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  as  he  followed  her. 

She  told  him  about  Biddy  and  her  pertinacity  on  the 
way  up. 

"  She  wouldn't  go  imtil  I  promised  you  would  speak  to 
her;  it  was  the  only  way  to  quiet  her.  We  don't  want  to  set 
the  household  talking.  She  is  in  my  room,  if  you  don't  mind 
stepping  up." 

"  The  marriage  is  to  be  put  off ;  I  suppose  you've  heard  ?  " 
His  heart  was  so  full  that  it  overflowed. 

"  It  won't  be  for  long,  milord ;  I'm  sure  it  won't  be  for 
long.  Miss  Eunice  is  so  attached  to  you,  if  I  may  be  allowed 
to  say  so." 


300  FULL  SWING 

"  Yfas,  you  mean.    Hallo !  " 

Biddy  flung  her  anns  about  liim  and  began  to  pour  out  a 
torrent  of  half-incoherent  Irish. 

'^  An'  didn't  I  say  you'd  never  be  turnin'  me  from  your 
door.  An'  me  with  your  child  in  me  arms.  Carried  her  in 
me  arms  I  did,  ivrj-  step  ov  the  way,  to  hould  her  up  so  she 
should  see  her  Da  come  back  from  the  wars  wid  the  glory  on 
him.  An'  thin  I  heard  you  was  to  be  married.  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  to  the  mother  ov  her,  but  sorra  a  bit.  The  wicked- 
ness of  ut !  Look  at  her !  "  The  baby  was  crawling  on  the 
floor,  and  she  caught  her  up.  "Whin  I  saw  what  was  the 
truth  of  ut,  that  niver  a  word  the  young  lady  knew,  nor  you 
belike,  that  maybe  ye  thought  they  were  both  dead — is  it 
dead  she  looks,  the  darlint  ?  An'  where's  her  mother  I  don't 
know.  But  I  brought  the  child  to  her  Da,  so  she'll  have  her 
rights ;  an'  I  towld  her,  the  bit  ov  a  pale-faced  girl,  who  ut  was 
was  the  feyther  ov  ut.    I  towld  ut  all  to  her " 

"  You  didn't  do  me  a  good  turn,  Biddy." 

"  An'  didn't  I,  thin  ?    But  it's  sorry  I  am." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  the  child,  and  she  looked 
at  him  anxiously. 

"  An'  will  I  be  goin'  away  agin',  thin,  me  and  her.  It's 
you  that's  first  wid  me,  an'  what  you  say  I'll  do,  if  it's  trampin' 
the  streets  wid  her."  She  was  as  wily  as  ever.  "  Is  it  goin' 
I'll  be  ?  "  She  made  for  the  door.  "  An'  her  Da  to  niver  so 
much  as  look  at  her,"  she  said  to  the  baby. 

"Wait;  don't  be  foolish.  Of  course  you're  not  to  go; 
you  can't  go  like  that."  He  was  distracted ;  tears  were  not  far 
from  his  eyes.  "I  must  get  off.  Wait  until  I  think.  Eeynolds, 
can  they  stay  here  ?  Is  there  anyAvhere  I  can  put  them  until 
I  get  back?" 

"  An'  her  the  image  ov  you.  It's  the  cowld  street  he'd  be 
afther  turnin'  ye  into." 

"Eeynolds?" 

"Of  course,  milord,  if  you  wish  it,  if  you  think  it  best." 
Reynolds  was  doubtful,  anxious  to  do  what  she  could  for  him. 
"  There  are  the  old  nurseries." 


FULL  SWING  301 

"  The  very  thing.  Take  them  up  there.  Let  them  stay 
until  I  come  back,  until  I've  seen  my  mother  again." 

Biddy  held  the  child  up  to  him  as  he  moved*  to  pass. 

"  An'  won't  ye  take  her  in  yer  arms  ?  " 

He  took  the  child  hurriedly,  and  it  was  true  that  he  was 
strangely  moved.  It  was  so  small  and  helpless,  by  the  con- 
traction of  his  heart  he  knew  what  Eunice  must  have  felt. 
Eunice !    He  must  find  her,  tell  her,  explain, 

"  I  must  get  off.  Look  after  them  until  I  come  back,"  he 
said  to  Eeynolds  brokenly.  He  was  not  going  to  abandon  them^ 
to  turn  them  into  the  streets ;  he  flushed  when  he  thought  of  it. 

"Whatever  sort  of  a  blackguard  I've  been,  I'm  not  that 
sort  of  blackguard,"  he  thought,  with  that  sob  in  his  throat 
and  strange  emotion  as  he  hurried  down  the  stairs.  How 
small  it  was,  and  helpless !  His  own  child !  It  seemed 
incredible. 

The  next  hours  were  spent  in  sending  telegrams  and  dis- 
patching messages  in  all  directions.  He  went  back  to  the 
station,  and  heard  that  Eunice  had  gone  to  town  by  the  10.17, 
Saying  to  the  stationmaster  that  there  had  been  a  mistake, 
that  they  had  missed  each  other,  seemed  to  make  it  true,  or 
possible;  seemed  to  bridge  the  distance  between  them.  Com- 
ing back  he  met  Dr.  Reid,  and  Dr.  Reid  stopped  to  speak  to 
him. 

"  This  is  a  great  blow  to  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Desmond  answered  hastily. 

"  I  have  just  wired  for  Sir  Simeon  Greenlees,"  Dr.  Reid 
went  on. 

"  For  Sir  Simeon  ?  "  Desmond  stood  still,  "  Whatever 
for?" 

"  The  symptoms  are  becoming  hourly  more  serious.  The 
delay  has  been  most  unfortunate.  She  has  been  brave — too 
brave," 

Desmond  remembered  in  time  that  he  must  not  give  away 
his  mother's  secret;  he  must  carry  out  her  instructions.  She 
seemed  to  have  persuaded  old  Reid  without  any  difficulty  that 
the  wedding  was  put  off  because  she  was  ill. 


302  FULL  SWING 

He  knew  now  Eunice  had  gone  to  London,  that  she  was 
not  far  away.  His  mother  would  know  where  to  look  for  her, 
to  which  of  their  friends  to  apply.  But  Desmond  had  a  new 
twinge  of  distress  in  remembering  that  neither  of  them  had 
had  any  intimate  friends ;  they  had  only  been  really  intimate 
with  each  other. 

"  I  must  get  back,  I  suppose  I  can  go  up  to  her?  " 
"  She  ought  not  to  be  left  alone.  I  shall  send  in  a  nurse 
for  to-night.  Eeynolds  can't  be  in  attendance  night  and  day." 
Desmond  was  fidgeting  to  get  away,  hardly  listening.  Dr. 
Eeid  thought  the  young  man  callous  or  indifferent.  He  hoped 
his  own  son,  Jack,  would  have  taken  the  news  of  his  serious 
illness  differently.  He  was  sorry  for  Lady  Grindelay.  "  The 
war  made  them  callous,"  was  the  excuse  he  found. 

"You  think  I  must  have  acted  well?"  was  Lady 
Grindelay's  comment  when  Desmond  told  her  she  was  to  have 
a  nurse,  that  Sir  Simeon  Greenlees  had  been  sent  for !  "  Never 
mind  what  he  said ;  I  made  the  most  of  it.  I  shall  have  to 
stay  in  bed  a  few  days,  I  suppose;  I  must  give  some  colour 
to  the  story.  Now,  tell  me  your  news;  all  you  have  done. 
You  have  got  hold  of  x\ndrew,  I  see ;  his  answer  seems  to  have 
come  very  quickly.    Have  you  had  any  lunch? " 

He  had  forgotten  lunch,  but  she  persuaded  him  to  eat.  It 
was  already  late.  He  forgot  also  to  tell  her  about  Biddy 
and  the  baby,  and  that  they  were  under  the  same  roof  with  her. 
"  Come  back  to  me  after  you  have  eaten,"  she  called  out 
to  him.  In  truth,  she  could  hardly  bear  him  out  of  her  sight. 
It  seemed  there  was  not  so  much  time  before  her  as  she  had 
supposed. 

When  he  came  up  again,  two  steps  at  once,  and  his  mouth 
still  full,  she  began  again  about  Andrew's  telegram. 

"  What  time-  did  you  telegraph  to  him  ?  I  see  tliis  was  sent 
off  at  eleven." 

Andrew  had  wired :  "  Coming  by  two-thirty." 
"  Have  you  ordered  the  carriage  ?  " 

"  I  told  John  to  meet  every  train,  to  stay  in  Marley,  put 
up  at  the  Arms.  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  her  finding  no 
one  at  the  station." 


FULL  SWING  303 

"  You  did  quite  right.  What  time  did  you  send  that  tele- 
gram to  Andrew  ?  " 

"You  mean — you  think "     He  caught  her  meaning 

quickly. 

"  I  think  he  was  coming  down  in  any  case,  it  is  not  your 
telegram  that  is  bringing  him,  he  has  news  for  us.  .  .  ."  He 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Of  course,  you're  right.  What  an  idiot  I  am !  Of 
course,  that's  what  it  is.  Eunice  went  to  him,  and  he's  bring- 
ing her  back.  I'll  go  down  and  meet  them.  There's  just 
time.    She'll  be  here  in  less  than  an  hour." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure." 

Her  warning  was  in  vain ;  he  was  already  out  of  her  reach. 
There  was  only  the  dog-cart  in  the  stables,  but  he  could  get 
to  the  station  in  less  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

He  accomplished  the  task,  turning  in  at  the  station  as 
the  engine,  with  its  blue  smoke,  rounded  the  comer.  The 
carriage  was  there,  too,  and  the  footman  to  catch  the  reins  as 
they  were  flung  to  him.  Desmond  was  on  the  platform  when 
the  train  came  in.  He  had  buoyed  himself  up  with  hope.  He 
felt  sure  Eunice  would  be  there.  And  once  he  saw  her  he 
thought  he  could  persuade  her;  that  at  least  she  would  not  be 
so  hard  on  him.  He  was  on  fire  to  see  her,  to  try  to  put  him- 
self right  in  her  eyes;  or,  if  not  right,  at  least  to  make  her 
think  him  less  black  than  she  thought  him  now.  He  had 
recovered  from  her  letter  a  little;  he  was  no  longer  in  utter 
despair.    He  would  see  her,  persuade  her,  explain. 

But  the  lawyer  got  out  alone.  Desmond  had  a  quick,  sick- 
ening sense  of  disappointment. 

"  Eunice  ? "  Question  and  answer  were  quite  simul- 
taneous : 

"  Is  quite  safe." 

"She  isn't  with  you?" 

"  No." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  With  the  girls  and  Michael  at  Campden  Hill." 

Andrew  was  sorry  for  the  boy;  anybody  who  saw  his  face 


304  FULL  SWING 

would  have  been  sorry  for  him.  Outside  the  station  he  said 
dully: 

"  The  carriage  is  here.  You  don't  mind  my  going  in  the 
dog-cart,  do  you  ?  " 

"  You  don't  want  to  hear  what  I've  come  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Not  just  now ;  not  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  I  warned  your  mother,  you  know." 

But  Desmond  was  already  out  of  hearing. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Lady  Grindelay  bore  herself  badly  when  Andrew  came  to 
her  in  her  room.  She  sent  down  word  that  he  was  to  be 
brought  up  directly  he  came.  She  had  already  heard  to  whom 
the  girl  had  gone. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  gloat  over  me,  to  say  '  I 
told  you  so/  to  say  how  wise  I  should  have  been  to  have  been 
guided  by  you.  That  is  what  you  have  come  to  say,  isn't  it?  " 
she  began.  He  was  shocked  at  her  appearance,  and  answered 
gently,  coming  up  to  the  bed,  standing  beside  it. 

"  I've  not  come  to  gloat.  How  could  you  think  it  ?  I've 
come  to  see  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  What  does  she  say  ?  She  has  not  come  with  you,  I  hear ; 
the  dog-cart  got  here  first.    Wouldn't  she  listen  to  reason  ?  " 

Eunice  had  been  waiting  in  Andrew's  office  when  he  ar- 
rived that  morning,  the  dingy  office  in  Bedford  Eow  with  its 
law  books,  littered  desk  and  faded  Turkey  carpet  where  so 
much  big  business  was  transacted.  Michael  had  an  appoint- 
ment to  see  a  client,  and  was  coming  down  later.  For  half  an 
hour  Eunice  sat  with  Andrew,  telling  her  story.  He  was  firm 
with  her,  hardly  sympathetic,  pointing  out  how  foolishly  she 
had  acted  in  leaving  Marley  in  this  way.  Then  Michael  came 
in,  and  she  turned  from  Andrew  to  him. 

"  You  said  if  I  ever  wanted  help  I  could  call  on  you," 
she  burst  out  passionately. 

And  Michael,  guessing  at  once  what  had  come  about,  an- 
swered soberly  but  without  hesitation: 

"  I  meant  what  I  said.    Tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do." 

Andrew,  after  a  few  words  of  explanation,  went  out  and 
left  them  together.  Half  an  hour  later  Michael  came  to  him 
again,  and,  on  the  strength  of  what  he  told  him,  Andrew  lost 
no  time  in  looking  up  a  train  to  Marley,  sending  his  advance 
telegram. 

20  305 


306  FULL  SWING 

"  You  go  down,  father,  and  tell  them  what  she  wishes." 

"  It  is  a  sad  business,"  Andrew  replied. 

"  Eunice  has  appealed  to  me.  I  know  she  is  overwrought, 
has  not  given  the  matter  sufficient  thought."  Michael  spoke 
as  if  he  were  out  of  breath.  "  I  should  not,  of  course,  take 
her  at  her  word,  take  advantage  of  what  may  be  only  a  mood, 
something  said  in  anger," 

"What  she  said  to  me  was  that  she  would  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  Desmond,  that  she  would  not  go  back;  she 
was  unpersuadable.    Is  that  what  she  told  you  ?  " 

"  One  must  wait,"  Michael  answered  oracularly,  but  still 
in  that  breathless  way,  his  face  a  dull  red. 

"  She  had  found  out,  after  all,  that  you  are  more  reliable." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  think  it  is  only  her  anger  speaking ;  she 
is  very  unlike  herself.  It  has  obviously  been  a  great  shock  to 
her.    I  am  not  going  to  take  any  advantage  of  it." 

"  You  still  care  for  her?  " 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  the  dull  red  deepening. 
"  All  we  have  to  think  of  is  what  is  best  for  her.  She  is  very 
agitated "  His  father  could  see  that  he,  too,  was  suffer- 
ing under  a  great  stress  of  emotion.  "  I  shall  do  nothing 
hastily,  not  let  her  bind  herself  in  any  way,  I  think  she 
knows  what  I  feel  about  it.  You  will  telegraph  and  say  you 
are  starting  at  once,  to  relieve  their  anxiety." 

"  You  want  me  to  tell  Lady  Grindelay  everything  you 
have  just  told  me?  " 

"  At  any  rate  you  must  tell  Iier  that  she  will  not  come 
back,  will  not  meet  Desmond  again." 

"  You'll  take  her  up  to  Campden  Hill  when  I  have  gone — 
to  the  girls.'' 

"  Yes." 

*  *  *  *  * 

Here,  by  Agatha's  bedside,  Andrew  was  doubtful  how  much 
or  how  little  he  should  tell  her.    He  temporised. 
"  She  is  very  overwrought." 
*'  How  long  does  she  mean  to  remain  away  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know ;  I  can't  say  at  all." 


FULL  SWING  307 

"  I  forbid  you  to  harbour  her." 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  Agatha.  You  had  better  hear  every- 
thing." 

"  That  is  what  I  am  waiting  for.  The  great  grievance  I 
suppose  is  that  she  was  not  told  ?  She  must  absolve  Desmond 
from  that;  he  did  it  for  me." 

"  That's  not  the  great  grievance ;  it  is  one  of  them,  but  not 
the  greatest.  He  was  callous  as  to  the  child's  welfare;  he 
made  no  inquiries " 

"  How  does  she  know  that  ?  " 

"  The  old  woman  told  her." 

"  Did  you  let  her  know  that  I  paid  the  child's  mother  to 
look  after  it?" 

"  Did  you  ?  "  asked  Andrew  dryly.  "  Did  you  ?  I  thought 
you  paid  her  to  keep  out  of  the  way.  But  that's  not  the  point, 
the  main  point.  Apart  from  her  own  personal  feelings  towards 
Desmond,  and  naturally  they  are  very  shaken,  quite  altered, 
she  tells  me  she  feels  that  if  she  were  to  put  them  to  one  side, 
let  you  persuade  her  to  such  a  marriage,  she  would  come 
between  you  and  your  grandchild.  She  is  quite  as  strong 
upon  duty  as  you  used  to  be;  she  thinks  the  baby  should  be 
here." 

"  Doesn't  she  understand  the  child  is  illegitimate?  Didn't 
you  tell  her  so  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  pointed  that  out  to  her,  and  she  seemed  to'  think 
it  of  no  consequence.  I  couldn't  press  it;  she  had  seen  the 
baby,  and  that  made  all  the  difference.  What  we  see  is  so 
different  from  what  we  hear." 

"  You  ought  to  have  brought  her  back  with  you.  I  could 
have  talked  to  her." 

*' That's  what  she  fears  most,  why  she  came  away.  She 
is  so  afraid  you  will  talk  her  over.  And  she  dreads  seeing 
Desmond." 

"  That,  at  least,  is  a  good  sign.  She  cannot  stay  away 
altogether.    Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  I  left  her  with  Michael.  He  will  take  her  up  to  Campden 
Hill  presently ;  the  girls  will  look  after  her.  They  are  devoted 
to  her,  you  know." 


308  FULL  SWING 

"  You  left  her  with  Michael  ? "  Agatha  said,  her  eyes 
doubtful. 

"  She  asked  for  Michael.  She  didn't  come  to  see  me  at 
all ;  she  came  to  see  Michael." 

*''You  had  better  tell  me  what  you  have  in  your  mind, 
Andrew;  what  j^ou  have  come  to  tell  me?  I  can  see  there  is 
something." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  can  guess  ?  "  He  spoke  quietly. 
"  After  all,  it  is  not  quite  new  to  you." 

*'  Go  on,  please  go  on." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  insist,  she  says  that  if  Michael  still 
cares  for  her,  if  Michael  will  take  her,  Desmond  and  Des- 
mond's child  can  be  at  home  here,  where  they  belong " 

''Michael!" 

"  A  short  time  ago  you  had  no  objection,  you  were  even 
anxious  for  it.  Don't  get  excited."  For  he  saw  how  she 
flushed.  "  Michael  is  the  best  of  sons ;  he  will  make  her  a 
good  husband ;  he  has  always  cared  for  her." 

"  For  Marley  !  " 

"  That  is  not  fair,  Agatha,  not  true,  and  you  know  it. 
What  I  can  give  Michael  would  buy  Marley  and  leave  some- 
thing over.  Besides,  Marley  is  for  Desmond,  for  his  chil- 
dren. Eunice  is  full  of  Desmond's  child  and  her  rights.  She 
knows  how  greatly  Michael  has  always  cared  for  her;  she 
offers  to  marry  him  without  delay.  She  thinks  that  will 
make  the  road  clear  for  you,  and  settle  things  here." 

"  You  are  mad,  mad;  all  of  you.  Desmond  will  never 
give  her  up.  I  am  not  going  to  have  him  disappointed.  This 
will  blow  over." 

"  It  will  have  to  be  a  strong  wind  to  blow  away  the  child. 
That's  a  concrete  fact,  3'Ou  know." 

"  When  was  all  this  spoken  of  ?  " 

"  In  my  office  this  morning." 

"  And  you  have  come  away  and  left  them  together  ?  " 

"It  was  Michael  sent  me  to  you.  You  can  trust  him; 
he  won't  let  her  do  anything  rash." 

*'  She  does  not  know  what  she  is  contemplating.  Mar- 
riage— without  love  !  " 


FULL  SWING  309 

For  an  instant  each  of  them  thought  of  their  own  mar- 
riages. 

"  When  one  cannot  get  cake,  bread  is  very  satisfying," 
said  Andrew  dryly,  quietly.    "  You  had  no  appetite  at  all " 

"Andrew,  you  are  playing  me  false;  you  are  intriguing 
against  me,  you  have  always  wanted  Eunice  for  Michael." 

She  was  becoming  agitated.  He  could  see  her  laboured 
breath,  her  feebleness  and  bad  colour,  that  she  could  hardly 
express  herself.    He  turned  away  from  her,  speaking  huskily. 

"  I  never  wanted  what  you  did  not." 

She  was  overcome  by  physical  weakness,  but  her  mind  re- 
mained clear.    She  began  again,  with  hardly  a  pause. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  you  have  been  a  good  friend.  You  have 
been  right  all  through."  She  found  it  hard  to  say  it.  "I 
have  not  stood  alone  as  well  as  I  thought.  If  I  had  only  said 
'  Yes '  to  you  at  the  beginning !  But  we  are  old  people  now. 
Andrew;  I  cannot  die  before  I  have  seen  the  boy  happy.  I 
have  misunderstood  him,  not  acted  in  his  best  interests.  I 
must  make  things  right  before  I  go.  Help  me !  You  see  how 
I  am,  half  dead  already,  unable  to  act  for  myself." 

"  I  am  here,  Agatha,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"  You  won't  go  against  me." 

"  How  can  you  think  it  ?  " 

"Bring  her  back  to  us.  She  is  for  Desmond.  Act  for 
me — help  me  !  " 

He  was  greatly  moved ;  she  was  so  much  stronger  in  her 
weakness  than  ever  she  had  been  in  her  strength. 

"  I  will  not  fail  you." 

"  You  have  a  genius  for  friendship ;  I  have  always  known 
it,  a  genius  for  friendship.  You  will  not  let  all  my  hopes  be 
balked?" 

"I'll  do  my  best,  whatever  I  may  think;  hold  a  brief 
against  my  own  son." 

"  Send  for  her,  make  her  come  back  here  at  once.  Michael 
is  not  like  Desmond;  Michael  will  get  over  it.  Besides,  she 
belongs  to  Desmond ;  they  have  always  cared  for  each  other — 
always,  since  they  have  been  little  children.     If  I  had  not 


310  FULL  SWING 

come  between  them,  putting  my  duty  to  her  before  my  duty 
to  him.  .  .  ." 

"  As  long  as  you  live  you  will  blunder.  .  .  ." 
"  That  is  not  going  to  be  for  very  long,  Andrew,"  she  an- 
swered, with  her  eyes  closed,  more  quietly.     "  Not  for  long." 
"  Do  you  think  that  makes  it  any  better  for  me  ?  "  he  an- 
swered harshly. 

They  began  to  talk  over  what  was  to  be  done.  Andrew 
urged  that  the  girl  should  be  allowed  to  stay  at  Campden  Hill 
for  the  present. 

"  He  must  know  where  she  is." 
"  I've  already  told  him." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  had  forgotten.  I've  not  been  as  ill  as 
this  before.  I  was  not  telling  you  the  truth  when  I  said  I 
was  feigning,  to  account  for  the  postponement  of  the  wed- 
ding." 

"  I  feared  it." 

"  You  will  make  her  come  back  at  once  ?  " 
Andrew  promised  that.     The  woman  he  had  loved  all  his 
life  lay  here,  old  and  broken,  pleading  with  him.     For  her 
he  disregarded  the  claims  of  his  own  son. 

When  he  went  downstairs  he  told  Desmond  briefly  that 
Eunice  wished  to  stay  away  for  a  time,  to  remain  with  them 
at  Campden  Hill,  but  that  Lady  Grin  delay  would  not  hear 
of  it. 

"  I'll  go  and  fetch  her,"  Desmond  answered  quickly.  "  We 
can  get  back  to-night." 

"  No,  no !    That  would  not  be  at  all  a  good  plan." 
"  She  is  too  angry  with  me,  too  bitter  against  me  ?  " 
"  You  must  give  her  time." 

"  If  only  I  had  told  her  myself,"  he  said  miserably. 
"Your  mother  wished  you  to  keep  silent,"  Andrew  an- 
swered briefly. 

He,  too,  had  been  unable  to  go  against  Agatha's  wishes; 
that  was  the  trouble.  Now,  notwithstanding  he  still  thought 
Eunice  would  be  safer  with  Michael  than  with  Desmond,  he 
intended  to  carry  out  his  promise,  he  meant  to  lose  no  time  in 
returning  to  town,  have  the  necessary  interview  with  Michael, 


FULL  SWING  311 

persuade  or  entreat  the  girl  to  reconsider  her  determination, 
and  give  her  aunt  the  opportunity  to  speak  once  more  with 
her. 

But  he  did  not  carry  out  his  intention. 

Sir  Simeon  Greenlees  came  down  by  the  afternoon  train, 
and  Dr.  Raid  brought  him  to  the  Court,  Dr,  Eeid  knew  of 
the  old  friendship  between  Lady  Grindelay  and  the  laAryer 
and  begged  him  to  await  the  result  of  the  consultation. 

"  I  hear  that  she  has  other  anxieties  now,  when  her  mind 
should  have  been  completely  at  ease." 

Dr.  Reid  was  even  better  informed  than  Andrew ;  he  knew, 
for  instance,  that  the  child  was  actually  in  the  house.  His 
son.  Jack,  was  on  the  staff  of  the  Marley  Hospital.  In  a 
small  country  town  news  spreads  like  fire.  Jack  had  told  him 
of  the  old  Irishwoman  and  the  baby  she  brought  with  her,  of 
Eunice's  visit  to  the  hospital  and  her  fainting  fit.  He  had 
not  to  put  two  and  two  together  to  make  four;  the  figures 
stared  him  in  the  face.  Dr,  Reid  was  too  old  to  be  curious; 
lie  remembered  Desmond's  father,  he  was  neither  curious  nor 
shocked.  His  patient  seemed  the  only  thing  that  mattered 
just  now. 

"  Stay  until  we  hear  what  Sir  Simeon  thinks.  I'm  afraid 
it  is  too  late  for  the  operation  he  advised.  She  would  not 
listen  to  him  in  London,  insisted  on  waiting  until  the  boy 
came  home,  until  she  had  witnessed  his  triumphal  reception 
here,  until  the  wedding  was  over.  Sir  Simeon  is  washing  his 
hands  now;  then  we  are  going  in  to  her.  But  I'm  afraid  it's 
too  late,"  Dr.  Reid  was  nearly  eighty,  and  death  was  a 
familiar  sight  to  him ;  but  his  old  eyes  were  rheumy  when  he 
added : 

"  She  may  wish  to  see  you  again." 

«  *  H:  :|:  4i 

The  doctors  were  with  Lady  Grindelay  the  best  part  of  an 
hour.  When  they  left  she  asked  that  Desmond  should  be 
sent  up  to  her.  Dr.  Reid  told  her  that  the  lawyer  was  still 
in  the  house,  and  she  sent  down  word  that  she  wished  him  to 


312  FULL  SWING 

remain.    The  doctors  could  talk  to  him,  and  whilst  they  were 
talking,  Desmond  was  to  come  up. 

"  What  have  they  told  you  ? ''  was  her  first  question  to 
her  son. 

"  That  she's  at  Campden  Hill." 

"  Oh ! " 

She  had  not  meant  what  he  had  been  told  about  the  girl, 
but  about  herself.    He  added  then,  a  little  remorsefully : 

"  What  did  the  bigwig  say  ?  Did  he  spot  that  you  were 
putting  it  on  a  bit  ?  " 

"  No — no.    He  didn't  say  that  exactly.  .  .  ." 

"What  did  he  say,  then?" 

"  You  need  not  believe  what  he  says.  Doctors  often  make 
mistakes — nearly  always." 

"He  doesn't  think  there  is  anything  really  wrong  with 
you,  does  he  ?  " 

She  lay  quiet  a  minute,  and  then  answered : 

"  He  thinks  my  time  has  almost  come ;  that  I  am  not  going 
to  get  better." 

"  What — what  ?  Mother !  It  isn't  true — say  it  isn't  true  ! 
I  can't- bear  it;  mother!"  His  voice  broke,  he  forgot  his 
own  trouble. 

"  Is  it  such  a  surprise  to  you,  then  ?  " 

He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  The  soft 
spot  in  him,  the  Irish  heart  that  came  from  Pat,  cried  out : 

"•I  can't  do  without  you  !    Say  it  isn't  true !  " 

His  words  were  sweet  for  her  to  hear;  they  were  like  the 
scent  of  flowers  in  the  room,  or  warm,  healing  waters.  She 
heard  him  sob  as  he  knelt  beside  the  bed. 

"  I've  been  such  a  bad  son,  I  want  to  be  better  to  you,  to 
have  time.  .  .  ." 

"  You  have  not  been  a  bad  son.  You  have  been  one  who 
called  and  had  no  answer ;  you  have  had  a  dumb  mother,  not 
deaf,  but  dumb.  Don't  cry;  you  must  not  grieve,  I  can't 
beajT  it;  it  is  all  right,  everything  is  coming  right  for  you. 
Tell  me  you  know  you  are  going  to  be  happy  when  I'm  gone, 
I  must  hear  that.  I've  wronged  you.  .  .  ." 
"  Mother,  it  isn't  true,  mother!  " 


FULL  SWING  313 

"  Do  you  care  ?  How  wrong  of  me  to  be  a  little  glad  that 
you  care.  I  am  not  going  to  get  well,  but  I  am  not  as  bad 
as  they  think.  I  know  much  better  than  they  do.  I  have  seen 
death  so  often.  This  is  not  death  ;  it  is  not  very  near.  Before 
then  I  shall  have  lost  hold.  I  have  seen  so  many  people  die, 
and  it  is  always  the  same ;  they  let  go  of  this  world  when  they 
are  in  sight  of  the  next.  I  have  not  come  to  that  yet.  I  want 
to  see  you  and  Eunice  happy  before  I  die.  I  want  you  to  go 
up  to  London  and  fetch  her.  To-morrow  morning  will  do; 
there  is  no  need  for  you  to  go  to-night.  Why  should  Andrew 
put  my  son  before  his  own  ?    Why  should  I  ask  it  of  him  ?  " 

Again  she  lay  still.  Desmond  had  risen  to  his  feet;  he 
was  standing  beside  her  now.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  him.  Tall  he  was,  and  delectable  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
sound  of  his  sobbing  had  been  like  violets  in  the  room;  she 
saw  that  his  eyes  were  swollen  with  crying. 

"  My  son !  how  .good  it  is  to  see  you  there.  I  have  never 
told  you  .  .  .  my  son,  how  much  I  have  cared  for  you ;  heart  of 
my  innermost  heart,  my  son.  I  have  nnade  so  many  mis- 
takes.    Forgive  me,  forgive  me  everything,  Desmond !  " 

"  Mother !    You'll  try  and  get  well." 

"  I  must  see  you  and  Eunice  married  before  I  go.  She 
is  your  heart's  desire,  isn't  she  ?  I  must  give  you  your  heart's 
desire."  ^ 

"  It's  to  see  you  better,"  he  broke  out. 

"  You  must  bring  her  back.  Tell  her,  and  that  I  want  to 
bid  her  '  good-bye.'  " 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  Don't  leave  her  too  long  with  Michael." 

"With  Michael?" 

"  Michael  has  always  cared  for  her.  In  her  anger  against 
you  she  has  gone  to  him.    She  must  come  back." 

"  She  wouldn't  look  at  Michael,"  he  said  hastily,  as  he  had 
said  once  before. 

"  No  one  can  tell  what  foolishness  a  girl  may  commit. 
Think  what  I  did  !" 

"  Eunice  would  never  look  at  Michael,"  he  repeated.  He 
would  have  been  angry  if  he  had  not  been  too  unhappy  for 


314  FUUj  swing 

anger.    "  You  don't  know  Eunice.    She  may  hate  me,  but  she 
would  never  put  anyone  else  in  my  place." 

"  So  she  would  have  said  of  you.  '  Desmond  would  never 
look  at  anyone  else.'  Can't  you  hear  her  saying  it?  That  is 
the  trouble — her  faith  in  you,  now  yours  in  her.  You  must 
go  to  her." 

Because  she  wanted  him  here  she  was  sending  him  away. 
She  went  on  talking  as  if  she  wercfctalking  to  herself : 

"The  wheel  has  come  full  circle!  We  women  ...  so 
unfit  to  stand  alone,  so  quick  in  seeking  to  cure  one  pain  with 
another.  I  was  forty,  forty  years  of  age  when  I  married  your 
father  because  Eunice's  mother  hurt  me !  " 

"  Eunice  is  different." 

"We  are  all  different  and  all  foolish.  Go  now.  Send 
Andrew  to  me.  Keep  him  here  to-night.  When  it  is  a  ques- 
tion of  our  sons  we  must  trust  no  one.  .  .  ." 

Desmond  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  room.  He  thought 
nothing  of  what  she  told  him  about  Eunice  and  Michael. 
Eunice  and  Michael !  It  was  unthinkable.  But  he  wanted  to 
find  someone  to  tell  him  his  mother  was  not  as  ill  as  she 
thought  herself,  that  there  were  years  before  her  in  which  he 
could  show  his  affection.    He  had  to  hope. 

To  Andrew  she  began  much  as  she  had  begun  to  Desmond. 

"  They  have  told  you,  I  suppose." 

"  They  have  told  me." 

"  I  have  refused  the  operation,  or  to  see  anyone  else." 

«  So  I  have  heard." 

"  And  I  have  told  Desmond  he  is  not  to  leave  Eunice  to 
you  or  to  Michael;  he  is  to  fetch  her  himself;  to  tell  her  I 
wish  to  bid  her  '  good-bye.'  " 

"  You  might  have  trusted  me." 

"  Andrew,  are  you  crying  too?  " 

He  had  kept  his  voice  under  control,  but  she  heard  the 
tears  in  his  controlled  voice. 

"  Andrew ! " 

"  Well,  well,  what's  the  next  ?  You  wouldn't  trust  me  to 
put  Michael's,  or  my  own,  interests  on  one  side,  to  act  for 
you." 


FULL  SWING  315 

"You  are  hurt?'' 

"  Wasn't  that  what  you  intended  ?  " 

"  Andrew ! " 

"  Yes." 

He  stood  beside  her  now,  looking  down  upon  her.  She 
was  not  a  grey  and  shrunken  oki  woman  in  his  eyes,  she  was 
the  girl  he  had  asked  in  marriage,  the  only  woman  he  had 
loved;  difficult,  impossible,  obstinate,  the  Agatha  who  should 
have  been  his.  And  she  looked  back  at  him.  She  knew  now 
how  much  his  friendship  had  meant  to  her,  she  had  ever  a 
sense  lacking,  but  it  was  not  the  sense  of  gratitude. 

"  I  did  not  tell  Desmond  to  go  because  I  did  not  trust  you. 
I  gave  him  that  reason,  but  it  was  not  the  true  one.  I  wanted 
you  beside  me  at  the  end.    Will  you  stay  with  me,  Andrew?  " 

"  Thank  you  for  wanting  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Lady  Grindelay  was  right  and  the  doctors  were  wrong.  She 
was  not  going  to  die  just  yet.  But  Desmond  knew  nothing 
of  that  when  he  went  up  to  town  the  next  day,  leaving  Andrew 
at  Marley,  and  uncertain  what  he  might  hear  when  he  got 
back.  Hopeful,  but  uncertain.  That  he  was  going  to  see 
Eunice  again  was  the  principal  thing.  However  she  might 
greet  him,  he  was  going  to  see  her.  When  he  remembered 
that  but  for  untoward  circumstances  she  would  be  already  his 
wife,  he  went  hot  all  over;  she  would  remember  it  too,  he  knew 
that.  His  mother's  illness  was  no  longer  in  the  foreground. 
He  was  going  to  give  her  message,  tell  Eunice  she  was  dying 
and  wished  to  say  good-bye ;  but  he  no  longer  quite  believed  it. 
He  had  seen  her  this  morning,  and  she  looked  much  as  usual. 

When  he  got  to  Campden  Hill  he  sent  up  his  card,  with 
the  words  "  /  mn^t  see  you  "  scored  and  underlined. 

Eunice  sent  back  her  reply  verbally.  She  refused  to  see 
him.  Mary  and  Martha  McKay,  good  girls  both  of  them, 
tried  to  get  her  to  soften  the  message,  to  let  one  of  them 
be  the  bearer  of  it,  but  she  was  inexorable.  She  was  also 
frightened,  but  they  did  not  know  that.  They  had  not  under- 
stood why  Michael  had  brought  the  girl  here,  or  why  the 
wedding  was  put  off,  the  wedding  for  which  their  new  dresses 
were  already  in  the  house.  They  were  full  of  curiosity,  of 
sympathy,  of  excitement.  Eunice  had  not  come  down  to 
dinner,  she  had  stayed  in  her  room  until  now;  they  were  sit- 
ting there  with  her  when  Desmond's  card  was  brought  up. 
Michael  had  told  them  not  to  ask  any  questions.  Neither 
Michael  nor  their  father  had  slept  at  home  last  night.  It 
was  very  hard  not  to  question,  but  they  were  good  girls  and 
devoted  to  their  brother;  also  to  Eunice,  of  course.  Michael 
had  been  there  that  morning,  but  he  had  not  asked  to  see 
Eunice.  He  said  she  had  better  be  undisturbed;  they  were 
to  tell  her  he  was  coming  home  to  lunch,  that  he  hoped  to  see 

316 


FULL  SWING  317 

her  then.  He  showed  them  a  paragraph  in  the  Morning 
Post  which  he  thought  would  be  sufficient  explanation  for 
them.    It  was  not,  but  that  is  an  unimportant  detail. 

"In  consequence  of  the  alarming  illness  of  Lady  Grinde- 
lay  the  marriage  hettveen  Lord  Orindelay  and  Miss  Fellowes 
is  unavoidably  postponed." 

"But  if  Lady  Grindelay  is  alarmingly  ill,  surely  Eunice 
would  be  with  her  ?  " 

"  There  are  reasons " 

But  he  would  not  give  them.  He  went  away,  saying  he 
would  be  back  to  lunch ;  they  were  to  tell  Eunice  so. 

When  Desmond  heard  that  Eunice  would  not  see  him,  he 
asked  if  Mr.  Michael  McKay  were  at  home,  and  was  almost 
ashamed  of  his  question,  hot  for  the  answer,  nevertheless. 

"  He's  coming  in  to  lunch,"  the  maid  answered,  going  be- 
yond her  instructions. 

"Then  I'll  wait  imtil  he  returns.  Perhaps  Miss  Mary 
would  see  me,  or  Miss  Martha  ?  Otherwise  I'll  wait  until  Mr. 
Michael  comes  back.^' 

There  was  no  immediate  hurry,  for  all  his  quick  heart- 
beats and  overwhelming  impatience,  Desmond  knew  there  was 
no  hurry.  From  Campden  Hill  to  Paddington  is  only  a  few 
minutes,  and  there  was  no  train  until  2.5.  "  Tell  her  I'm  not 
going  away." 

The  message  was  brought  up  to  the  room  where  the  three 
girls  were  sitting  together.  Eunice  sprang  to  her  feet,  paling 
and  startled,  saying: 

"  Oh,  he  must  go ;  tell  him  he  must  not  stay  here." 

Martha  and  Mary  exchanged  glances. 

"  Shall  I  go  down  to  him?  " 

"  Or  I ?  " 

"I  don't  want  him  to  meet  Michael;  he  mustn't  meet 
Michael,"  Eunice  answered  agitatedly.  "Oh,  what  shall  I 
do  ?    Won't  he  go  away ;  can't  you  make  him  go  away  ?  " 

The  parlourmaid  stared  at  her;  Mary  and  Martha,  with 
more  delicacy,  looked  away." 


318  FULL  SWING 

"We'll  do  anything  you  wish/'  they  said  almost  simul- 
taneously. 

"  I — I  can't  see  liim." 

They  had  never  heard  of  anything  so  strange. 

"  Michael  will  know  what  to  do  when  he  comes,"  they  said 
in  chorus.  In  that  house  it  was  an  axiom  that  Michael  always 
knew  what  was  to  be  done  in  any  emergency ;  there  had  been 
only  small  emergencies  until  this  one.  But  Eunice  knew  that 
she  did  not  want  the  two  men  to  meet.  In  a  sudden  and 
unexpected  revulsion  of  feeling  she  felt  that  she  had  been  dis- 
loyal to  Desmond.  She  had  asked  Michael  to  marry  her,  let 
him  put  his  arms  round  her.  Her  cheeks  flamed.  All  at  once 
it  seemed  to  her  it  was  a  dreadful  thing  she  had  done,  dread- 
ful and  inexplicable.  Desmond  was  downstairs  and  she  could 
not  face  him.  Just  at  that  moment  it  was  not  because  of 
what  he  had  done,  but  because  of  what  she  had.  She  was 
drawn  to  him  by  cords  stronger  than  she  could  resist ;  she  had 
pulled  against  them  and  now  fell  ])ack,  trembling,  unnerved. 

"  Wliat  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  said  again,  despairingly.  They 
heard  a  cab  in  the  street;  it  pulled  up  quickly;  there  was  the 
sound  of  a  key  in  the  latch. 

"  Here  is  Michael." 

He  had  been  unable  to  wait  until  the  usual  time.  He  had 
not  taken  her  at  her  word  yesterday,  when  she  had  thrown 
herself  on  his  protection  or  chivalry.  He  had  kept  his  self- 
control;  he  must  feel  sure  she  would  not  regret  her  impulse 
to  come  to  him,  that  she  meant  she  could  never  forgive  Des- 
mond, never  look  at  him  again.  He  was  a  man,  but  a  chiv- 
alrous one,  and  he  had  lived  without  hope.  He  knew  what 
she  felt  for  her  cousin;  she  had  never  disguised  it  from  him. 
All  night  he  had  lain  awake,  thinking  what  it  would  mean 
to  have  her  for  his  wife,  to  care  for  her.  He  wanted  to  be  fair 
to  lOesmond,  but  he  forgot  Desmond  once  or  twice  in  the  con- 
templation of  what  might  come.  He  thought  he  could  make 
lier  happy;  at  least  he  would  have  no  secrets  from  her.  If 
she  felt  the  same  to-day  as  sha  did  yesterday,  he  would  take 
her  at  her  word;  he* could  resist  no  farther.  That  is  what  he 
thought  when  he  put  his  latchkey  in  the  door.     She  had  had 


FULL  SWING  319 

time  enough  for  thinking;  he  had  left  her  alone  on  purpose. 
If  she  felt  the  same  to-day  he  would  take  her  at  her  word. 

Desmond,  fuming  and  on  the  watch,  heard  the  hansom 
drive  up  as  quickly  as  they  did,  and  he  was  in  the  hall  when 
Michael  opened  the  door.  All  Michael's  dreams  were  shat- 
tered when  he  saw  Desmond.  He  matched  himself  against 
him  in  that  moment,  the  choice  was  for  her  to  make.  He  was 
not  unconscious  of  his  worth,  and  yet  his  dreams  were  shat- 
tered. 

"  You  here  ?  '^  he  said. 

"  It  wasn't  likely  I'd  be  anywhere  else,"  Desmond  answered. 

"  She  won't  see  you." 

"  She  will  have  to  see  me." 

Michael  hung  up  his  hat  mechanically. 

"  If  she  does  not  wish  to  see  you,  you  cannot  force  her." 

"  Can't  I  ?  You  see  if  I  can't."  It  wa^  not  the  way  he 
had  meant  to  speak,  but  Michael's  quietude  and  assurance 
angered  liim,  and  the  remembrance  of  what  his  mother  had 
hinted.  "  I'm  going  to  see  her.  I'm  not  going  to  leave  this 
house  until  I  have.  You  don't  think  you  can  prevent  me,  do 
you  ?  "  he  said,  advancing  threateningly. 

"  Don't  be  childish.  You  are  not  a  boy.  This  is  not  a  ease 
for  fisticuffs.  If  she  does  not  wish  to  see  you,  I  shall  protect 
her  from  intrusion,  this  is  my  father's  house;  violence  will 
have  no  effect  on  me." 

Desmond  dropped  his  hands.  He  had  no  quarrel  with 
Michael,  and  felt  no  jealousy  now  that  he  stood  before  him. 
Eunice  had  always  laughed  at  Michael,  at  his  eye-glass  and  stiff 
manner.  Michael  had  looked  after  him  when  he  was  ill, 
shown  himself  a  friend.    He  was  ashamed  of  his  first  instinct. 

"  Will  you  bring  her  down  to  me  ?  Will  you  tell  her  that  it 
is  vital  I  should  see  her  at  once  ?  " 

"But  is  it?" 

Michael  knew  nothing  of  what  had  been  occurring  at 
Marley,  of  Sir  Simeon  Greenlees  and  his  verdict. 

"  She  has  broken  off  her  engagemenfi  to  you,  and  does  not 
wish  to  be  importuned." 

"  I  won't  importune  her,  you  can  tell  her  that.    I  will  ncft 


320  FULL  SWING 

even  speak  of  what  is  between  us — at  least,  not  yet.  But  I 
have  a  message  from  my  mother.  I  must  see  her  face  to  face 
and  give  her  my  mother's  message." 

"  Give  it  to  me." 

"  No ;  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  her.  What  are  you  afraid 
of?" 

"  Of  not  carrying  out  her  wishes,"  Michael  answered. 

But  it  was  not  quite  true.  Desmond  may  have  looked 
little  more  than  a  boy,  but  it  was  folly  to  deny  that  he  was  a 
handsome  one,  with  grace  and  glamour  about  him.  Michael 
stood  irresolutely.  He  did  not  want  them  to  meet.  Yet 
if  she  were  not  strong  enough  to  resist  him  now,  she  would 
never  be  strong  enough.  It  was  a  test.  If  she  saw  him  and 
said  to  his  face  what  she  had  said  behind  his  back — that  she 
hated  him,  and  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him — ; 
then — ^then  he  might  dismiss  his  scruples.    Desmond  went  on : 

"  I  give  you  my  word  I  won't  even  talk  to  her  about 
myself — not  yet,  not  now.  You  can  be  there  if  you  like." 
He  could  afford  to  be  generous ;  this  could  be  no  rival  of  his, 
this  slow,  impeccable  Michael.  "  She  needn't  see  me  alone  if 
shei  doesn't  want  to." 

"  Very  well,  then.    Wait  here.    I'll  go  up." 

Michael  went  slowly,  deliberately,  not  as  Desmond  would 
have  gone  to  the  girl  he  loved.  All  Michael's  methods  and 
his  manners  were  different. 

He  called  his  sisters  out  of  the  room  and  said  quite  calmly 
that  he  wished  to  see  Eunice  alone.  He  even  waited  to  wash 
his  hands  and  make  his  hair  smooth  before  he  went  to  her. 

But  when  he  saw  her  pallor  and  distress,  and  noted  her 
irresolution,  liis  heart  sank.  Not  like  this  had  she  been  yester- 
day.   Yesterday  she  had  clung  to  him,  urged  him. 

"  I  don't  feel  safe  without  you,"  she  had  said.  "  Michael, 
save  me,  help  me  !  If  you  don't  marry  me,  I  don't  know  what 
I  shall  do." 

Michael  had  refrained  as  far  as  possible  from  letting  her 
know  what  her  appeal  to  him  meant,  how  it  affected  him.  He 
had  reassured  and  soothed  her,  promised  he  would  stand,  if 
necessary,  between  her  and  Desmond,  between  her  and  her 


EULL  SWING  321 

aunt,  that  nobody  should  force  or  over-persuade  her.  His 
heart  had  swelled  with  tenderness;  he  had  desired  her  above 
everything.  But  what  was  essential  was  her  happiness.  In 
the  night  he  had  thought  he  could  give  it  to  her.  This  morn- 
ing he  looked  upon  her  face  and  his  heart  sank. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  this  morning  ?  "  was  the  way  he  began. 
Yesterday  she  had  sobbed  in  his  arms — in  his  arms !  But  she 
never  knew  they  were  around  her.  He  knew  even  then  how 
impersonal  it  had  been,  that  to  her  he  was  not  a  man  at  all, 
only  a  shelter  from  this  evil  thing  that  had  come  to  her,  from 
the  sight  of  Desmond's  child. 

"  You  know  that  Desmond  is  downstairs  ?  " 

"  I  know." 

"  He  is  very  urgent  about  seeing  you — insistent.  He  says 
he  comes  from  your  aunt." 

Her  lips  trembled.  Desmond  was  downstairs;  the  cords 
were  pulling,  pulling  all  the  time.  Perhaps  he  could  explain. 
She  felt  her  owti  weakness,  and  knew  that  no  explanation  was 
possible.  The  flush  rushed  to  her  face;  and  the  flush  heated 
Michael's  slow  blood, 

"  I — I  can't  see  him,"  she  faltered. 

Michael  went  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

"  You  need  not,  I  will  take  care  of  you,  since  you  have 
given  me  the  right " 

Given  him  the  right !  Michael,  Michael  McKay  !  He  saw 
her  eyes  dilate.  But  for  the  moment  he  was  less  master  of 
himself  than  usual, 

"  I  have  thought  it  over.  I  know  now  there  is  no  other 
way,  you  were  quite  right,  he  will  never  leave  you  alone ;  they 
will  never  leave  you  alone.  But  if  you  were  my  wife — when 
you  are  my  wife " 

"  Oh,  Michael,  don'ir— don't" 

He'  would  have  put  his  arms  round  her.  She  shrank  from 
him.  He  saw  the  revulsion  in  her  face  and  her  dilated  eyes,  her 
retreat. 

"  I — I  didn't  mean  it,"  she  faltered.     Now  Michael  went 
as  pale  as  she. 
21 


323  FULL  SWING 

"You  said  you  wished  to  marry  me  to-day,  as  soon  as 
possible 


"  I— I  didn't  think  of— of- 


Of  kissing  me  ?  "  He  went  as  red  as  he  had  been  pale. 
Is  that  it  ?  "  He  stood  quite  near  her,  but  he  did  not  touch 
her.    "  You  had  not  thought  of  that?  " 

"  No." 

"  Yet  it  has  to  be  thought  of."  He  could  only  woo  her  in 
his  own  way. 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that."     She  was  panting,  frightened, 

shrinking. 

"  Think  now." 

"  I  couldn't— couldn't '' 

"  Bear  me  near  you  ?  "  He  spoke  low.  His  arms  ached 
for  her,  literally  ached.  His  heart  ached  too,  but  to  that  he 
was  accustomed. 

"  You  said  you  wished  to  marry  me."  He  repeated  it, 
but  he  knew  how  long  ago  that  seemed,  how  far  away,  that  now 
she  could  not  bear  him  to  touch  her. 

"  I  know.  You'll  never  forgive  me ;  I  know  you  can  never 
forgive  me." 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  forgiveness."  And  then  he  was 
silent.  "  It  is  no  question  of  forgiveness,"  he  said  again.  "  I 
was  there  for  you  to  use.  I  am  here  for  you  to  use.  I  only 
want  you  to  be  sure  this  time.    You  don't  want  me " 

"  I  do  want  you." 

She  was  ashamed  of  herself  now,  and  sorry,  very  sorry  for 
Michael.  She  could  not  let  him  kiss  her,  she  could  not  bear 
his  arms  round  her ;  she  could  never  care  for  Michael  like  that 

never.     She  saw  his  eye-glass  and  smooth  hair  and  bony 

hands ;  all  her  body  shrank  from  him. 

"  Not  for  your  husband  ?  "  The  crimson  flooded  her.  the 
blood  beat  in  her  temples. 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  She  said  she  was  sorry,  but  his  hurt  went 
deeper  than  she  could  know. 

"  Do  forgive  me,"  she  asked  again. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  answered  stiffly.  He  turned  away 
from  her;  he  did  not  want  her  to  see  what  it  meant  to  him 


FULL  SWING  323 

that  she  shrank  from  liis  touch,  cowered  away  from  his  kiss 
as  if  from  a  blow ;  that  to-day  she  could  not  even  bear  to  think 
of  liim  as  her  husband.  "  It  doesn't  matter."  Then  he  pulled 
himself  together,  speaking  in  a  different  tone.  He  had  to  face 
the  position,  and  face  it  so  that  she  should  not  know  the  cost 
to  him.  Yesterday  she  had  cried  on  his  shoulder;  yesterday 
she  had  asked  his  protection.  Well,  she  had  had  it.  And  the 
night  had  been  his  own.    He  had  had  that  night  of  dreaming. 

"  Will  you  see  your  cousin  ?  "  he  asked,  as  if  yesterday  she 
had  not  said  she  would  never  see  him  again.  "  He  says  he 
comes  from  your  aunt,  bearing  a  message  from  her." 

"Ought  I  to?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  He  spoke  roughly,  but  recollected 
himself,  and  went  on  more  quietly,  "  What  is  your  own  feel- 
ing ?  "    She  answered  truthfully : 

"  Frightened.    I  am  frightened." 

"  He  has  promised  not  to  importune  you."  Her  flush  was 
painful. 

"  You'll  stay,  won't  you  ?  You'll  stay  here  if  I  have  to 
see  him  ?  " 

"  I  shall  do  whatever  you  require." 

"He  is  not  to  talk  to  me;  he  is  only  to  give  me  tlje 
message." 

"  I  will  tell  him." 

Michael  knew — he  knew  before  he  went  to  fetch  Desmond 
what  she  feared.  It  was  herself.  Eeaction  had  been  succeeded 
by  reaction,  and  to-day  she  did  not  hate  Desmond  any  more. 
How  could  she,  after  those  long  years  ?  She  was  one  burning 
flush,  inside  and  outside,  when  she  thought  of  him,  and  that  he 
had  been  untrue  to  her.    But  she  did  not  hate  him. 

Michael  delivered  her  message  accurately,  and  Desmond 
gave  the  required  promise.  Eunice  tried  to  be  dignified  when 
he  came  in — dignified  with  Desmond !  She  would  not  look  at 
him.    Her  eyes  could  not  meet  his,  and  his,  too,  were  averted. 

"  You  have  a  message  ?  "  She  meant  her  voice  to  be  very 
cold  and  dignified,  but  it  was  only  faltering. 

"  From  my  mother." 

"What  is  it?" 


324  FULL  SWING 

"  She  is  much  worse." 

"Not— not ?" 

"  Dr.  Eeid  and  Sir  Simeon  G-reenlees  say  so.  She  wants 
you  to  come  back — to  come  back  at  once  with  me.  She  wants 
to  say  good-bye  to  you." 

There  was  a  break  in  his  voice.  Her  quick  tears  rose,  her 
face  paled,  her  voice  stammered. 

"  You — you  are  sure  I  shall  be  in  time  ?  " 

"  We  must  catch  the  two-five." 

They  were  only  conscious  of  each  other.  Eunice  had  a 
faint  disloyal  doubt  whether  it  was  a  ruse,  a  ruse  to  get  her 
back.  But  she  wanted  to  go.  Oh,  how  much  she  wanted  to 
go !  There,  at  Marley,  was  home.  Here  was  Michael  with  his 
reproachful  face.  Was  it  reproachful?  She  could  not  see 
through  the  tears  that  gathered,  when  she  said  again : 

"You  are  sure — ^you  are  sure  that  I  shall  be  in  time?" 

"  She  was  sure." 

In  the  cab  on  the  way  to  the  station  she  stole  a  glance  at 
Desmond,  and  saw  his  eyes  were  swollen.  She  wanted  to  put 
her  hand  in  his ;  they  had  always  comforted  each  other.  But 
she  refrained,  remembering  that  he  had  deceived  her,  and  that 
there  had  been  another  woman  and  a  baby.  In  the  railway 
carriage,  on  the  way  to  Marley,  they  hardly  spoke'  to  each 
other,  or  spoke  as  strangers.  It  was  so  unusual,  like  some- 
thing that  could  not  be  happening.  She  pretended  to  look 
at  the  pictures  in  the  illustrated  papers,  and  he  looked  out 
of  the  window.  Only  as  they  neared  Marley,  when  they  were 
within  a  minute  or  two  of  the  station  and  the  speed  was 
already  slackening,  he  spoke : 

"  You  said  I  wasn't  to  speak  to  you,  but  you've  got  to  hear 
this.  They — she,"  he  blurted  it  out,  "  Biddy  and  the  baby  are 
at  the  Co^^^t.  My  mother  does  not  know,  and  it  is  to  be  kept 
from  her.  I  suppose  that  will  make  your  coming  back  worse 
than  ever.  I  can't  help  it — I  can't  turn  them  away."  His 
voice  lowered.  "I  suppose  you  hate  to  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  her,  that  you  hate  the  very  thought  of  her."  His  voice 
was  not  only  lowered,  but  broken. 


FULL  SWIXG  325 

"  I  don't  hate  her,  I  don't  want  her  to  .be  anywhere  else. 
She  has  the  right  to  be  at  Marley." 

"  If  nothing  had  happened,  it  is  you  who  would  have  had 
to  decide  who  should  or  should  not  be  at  Marley.  We  should 
have  been  married  by  now.  And  if  mother  was  too  ill  to  say 
what  was  to  be  done,  you'd  have  had  to  say  it." 

Her  heart  fluttered;  that  Desmond  should  be  speaking  to 
her  like  this  was  unreal.  Desmond !  Whenever  he  had  been 
in  disgrace  or  distress  she  had  comforted  him,  helped  him. 
Now,  when  he  looked  more  unhappy  than  ever  he  had  done 
before,  she  had  nothing  comforting  to  say  to  him. 

"  I  never  thought  of  hating  the  baby.  Of  course,  it  ought 
to  be  there,"  she  said  violently,  and  then  stopped,  flushed. 
"  I'll  never  forgive  you  for  not  having  told  me,"  she  went  on 
vehemently.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  to  me;  I  don't  want 
to  talk  to  you.  I  had  to  come  back  because  you  said  she  wanted 
to  say  good-bye  to  me.     .     .     ." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  how  unhappy  I  am." 

"  It's  your  own  fault." 

"  Do  you  think  you  need  remind  me  ?  " 

'^  I  don't  want  to  remind  you.  I  don't  want  to  speak  to 
you."  He  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  remonstrate  or  plead, 
but  thought  better  of  it.  He  had  promised  not  to  importune 
or  hurry  her,  she  was  coming  back  to  the  Court,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  think  of  her  as  being  like  this  wnth  him  always. 

In  an  unnatural  silence  they  completed  their  journey, 
driving  to  the  Court  as  they  had  driven  to  Paddington,  without 
words,  but  acutely  conscious  of  each  other's  proximity. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

But  once  she  was  back  at  the  Court  it  was  as  if  she  had  never 
left;  they  all  combined  to  make  her  feel  it.  Michael's  father 
met  them  at  the  lodge  gate  and  praised  her,  saying  slie  was  a 
good  girl  to  come.  Desmond,  before  she  went  np  to  her  aunt's 
room,  contrived  to  say: 

"  I'll  keep  out  of  your  way  as  much  as  possible." 

Lady  G-rindelay's  first  words  were : 

"  Was  the  train  late  ?  "  as  if  she  had  been  watching  and 
wearying  for  her.  There  was  no  allusion  that  day  to  the 
reason  for  her  going  nor  the  necessity  for  her  return. 

An  operation  might  have  hastened  the  end.  Without 
it  the  patient  lingered.  Andrew  went  back  to  town,  but  came 
down  every  evening,  sleeping  in  the  house,  at  Agatha's  request. 
There  were  a  few  days  when  she  suffered  intensely,  and  every- 
one, even  the  nurses,  hoped  the  agony  would  not  be  prolonged. 

"  Such  a  long  passage,  such  a  long  and  difficult  passage," 
she  was  heard  to  murmur.  Death  came  slowly;  she  was  very 
brave,  but  she  did  complain  sometimes  that  it  came  slowly. 

The  question  of  the  operation  was  raised  again,  but  she 
was  steady  in  refusing  it,  and  in  saying  that  she  would  die  a 
natural  death.  Dr.  Eeid  and  his  son  Jack,  who  were  both  in 
attendance  now,  took  different  views.  Dr.  Eeid  upheld  her, 
Jack  argued  all  the  time.  He  thought  nothing  was  being  done 
that  ought  to  be  done.  A  dozen  new  scientific  experiments 
occurred  to  him;  he  was  idtra-modem,  up  to  date.  The  old 
man  knew  that  when  the  fiat  has  gone  forth  neither  drugs  nor 
the  surgeon's  knife  can  avail. 

"  Leave  her  in  peace,  cease  arguing  with  her,"  he  told  Jack. 
"  Is  it  worth  while  to  give  her  a  few  weeks  longer,  or  even 
months  ?    She  is  beyond  cure." 

Jack  thought  differently.  He  was  seven-and-twenty,  and 
had  learnt  everything  the  London  and  Paris  hospitals  could 
teach  him,  he  had  also  been  to  Berlin  and  Vienna.     Death 

326 


FULL  SWING  327 

seemed  almost  an  incredible  thing  to  .him ;  there  were  so  many 
new  weapons  with  which  to  fight  it. 

Jack  had  another  patient  in  the  house  just  now.  Biddy 
and  the  baby  remained,  and  Jack  tried  many  of  his  experi- 
ments on  the  baby.    If  it  thrived  it  was  in  spite  of  them. 

Lady  Grindelay  knew  now  of  these  strange  inmates  in  her 
house.  How  she  came  to  know  was  difficult  to  decide.  But 
one  day  she  said : 

"  It  is  that  woman's  child  I  hear,  I  suppose !  Is  it  because 
of  her  you  will  not  marry  Desmond  ?  " 

Startled,  Eunice  answered  quickly: 

"  Yes." 

But  it  was  not  true.  If  it  had  been  it  was  so  no  longer. 
She  had  heard  Desmond's  story  by  now.  Living  in  the  same 
house,  often  in  the  sick  room  together,  where  Lady  Grindelay 
summoned  them  in  her  intervals  of  consciousness,  it  had  been 
impossible  to  avoid  him.  They  both  cared  for  this  old  woman 
who  lay  dying.  They  cried  about  her  sometimes,  thinking 
it  terrible  she  should  have  to  suffer  so  cruelly.  Their  tears 
brought  them  together. 

"  Poor  auntie,"  Eunice  would  say  pitifully, 

"  Isn't  it  awful  ?  "  Desmond  would  reply,  his  eyes  wet. 

"  Can't  anything  more  be  done  for  her  ?  When  I  see  her 
so  brave,  and  then  hear  her  moan,  I'm  beside  -myself.  I 
sometimes  think  I've  only  just  got  to  care  about  her,  to 
understand  her." 

Eunice  had  to  comfort  him.  Just  as  he  had  to  try  and 
explain  the  past  to  her,  for  all  she  had  told  him  she  did  not 
want  to  hear.  He  could  not  tell  his  story  very  well,  nor 
convincingly,  but  haltingly  and  lamely.  How  could  he  ex- 
plain Nurse  Eadlett  to  the  girl  ?  He  could  not  explain  her  to 
himself,  nor  how  he  had  fallen. 

"  She  is  married  now,  anyway.  I  shall  never  see  or  hear 
from  her  again.  She  wrote  that  to  the  McKays,  and  that  I 
was  welcome  to  the  child.  Don't  yooi  think  it  awful  when 
a  baby  has  neither  a  father  nor  a  mother — only  Biddy?  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  to  be  mentioning  her  to  you  at  all.  I 
wish  you  didn't  feel  so  badly  about  her,"  he  said  unhappily. 


338  FULL  SWING 

Nobody  knew,  least  of  all  Desmond,  that  Eunice  did  not 
feel  badly  abont  the  baby  nor  resent  her  presence. 

Often,  so  often,  without  Desmond  or  anyone  knowing 
of  it,  she  had  stopped  at  the  nursery  door,  gone  in,  seen  the 
baby  girlie  lying  on  a  rug,  crowing  or  trying  to  talk ;  so  often 
she  had  taken  it  into  her  arms !  All  her  instincts  should  have 
been  against  the  child,  but  they  were  not,  they  yearned  to 
her  in  tearful  tenderness.  But  in  secret,  always  in  secret. 
She  was  for  ever  telling  herself  that  she  was  no  longer  in  love 
with  Desmond,  he  had  deceived  her,  kept  things  from  her.  But 
now  her  anger  had  died  down,  and  she  believed  her  aunt  was 
responsible  for  his  reticence.  She  did  not  allow  her  mind  to 
dwell  upon  the  woman,  married  now  and  out  of  his  life.  In 
secret,  and  half  ashamedly,  she  haunted  the  nursery,  found 
herself  unable  to  keep  away,  crying  over  the  baby  sometimes 
because  it  was  motherless  and  without  anyone  to  love  it.  Such 
a  darling  baby,  too,  so  small  and  sweet,  a  cuddly  baby.  It 
learnt  to  know  her,  held  out  appealing  arms,  gurgled  at  her. 
When  she  held  the  little  one  in  her  arms  it  was  difficult  to 
put  her  down  again. 

There  are  born  mothers  in  the  world  as  there  are  born 
poets,  and  Eunice  was  one  of  these.  Day  by  day  this  baby 
found  a  way  into  her  heart.  Many  and  many  a  time  when 
she  stole  into  the  room  to  see  the  child  undressed,  she  forgot 
everything  concerning  her  except  that  she  was  a  baby,  soft  to 
touch  and  sweet  to  hold.  Eeynolds  as  well  as  Biddy  knew  of 
these  stolen  visits  of  the  girl.  No  one  else,  not  Desmond, 
nor,  of  course,  the  dying  woman. 

There  came  a  day  when  there  was  a  cessation  in  Lady 
Grindelay's  constant  pain,  some  new  era  or  change  took  place 
in  the  disease.  The  great  weight  of  disaster  was  lifted  tem- 
porarily from  the  home,  the  head  of  the  household  was  not 
going  to  die,  she  was  getting  better.  We  have  all  seen  such 
deathbed  revivals,  and  only  the  young  and  inexperienced  take 
hope  from  them.     Eunice  and  Desmond  were  both.     Lady 


FULL  SWING  329 

Grindelay,   although   she  knew  hotter,   led   them   on.      She 
crowed  over  nurses  and  doctors. 

"Didn'^t  I  tell  you  so?"  she  said.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  I 
was  not  going  to  die  yet  ?  " 

The  improvement  in  her  health  had  its  inevitable  conse- 
quence. The  reins  had  slipped,  not  fallen,  and  now  she  was 
for  gathering  them  up  again. 

"  How  are  matters  between  you  and  Eunice  ?  "  she  asked 
Desmond  when  he  was  alone  with  her. 

"  In  a  way  we  are  friends,"  he  answered  hesitatingly. 
He  was  sure  and  unsure.  She  avoided  him,  ran  from  him, 
but  he  had  once  made  her  admit  tliat  she  did  beliefve  he 
had  never  cared  for  anybody  else.  "  It  is  only  the  child  that 
is  between  us,"  he  told  his  mother. 

"  I  must  see  you  married  before  I  die.  You  can  be  married 
here,  by  my  bedside,  you  can  wait  for  your  honeymoon  until 
I'm  gone.    I  want  to  see  you  happy." 

"You'll  never  persuade  her,  I  fear.    If  you  only  could !  " 

After  that  it  was  easy  to  see  the  dying  woman  thought  of 
nothing  else.  It  was  wonderful  how  her  brain  still  worked 
in  her  tortured  body,  how  nothing  counted  with  her  now  but 
her  son's  happiness. 

"  You  shall  neither  see  nor  hear  of  the  child.  Of  course 
it  ought  never  to  have  been  brought  here — would  not  have 
been  but  for  my  illness.  I  will  provide  for  her.  Do  not  be 
obstinate,  Eunice.  Desmond  has  done  nothing  to  excuse  you 
behaving  so  badly  to  him.  Every  man  has  some  such  history 
in  his  life.  My  poor  boy  must  not  suffer  because  there  are 
bad  women  in  the  world,  and  one  met  him  when  he  was  weak, 
a  Delilah  against  whom  he  was  never  warned.  I  ought  to 
have  warned  him.  I  sent  him  away  from  me  without  a  safe- 
guard. He  must  have  a  wife,  I  understand  that  now.  You 
must  not  think  only  of  yourself." 

"  I'm  not  thinking  only  of  myself." 

"  The  child  will  be  provided  for." 

"  I  don't  care  for  Desmond  as  I  used.'' 

"  I  can't  leave  him  in  loneliness." 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry  him." 


330  FULL  SWING 

Lady  Grindelay  deemed  that  was  of  little  consequence, 
one  has  to  remember  she  had  been  a  long  time  under  drugs. 
She  told  Desmond  to  get  a  special  licence,  she  thought  the 
opportunity  for  using  it  would  come.  Her  whole  mind  was 
set  upon  how  to  bring  about  the  marriage. 

The  last  time  Eunice  told  her  aunt  she  would  not  marry 
Desmond,  that  nothing  would  induce  her  to,  that  she  did 
not  care  for  him  any  more,  was  the  day  when  the  revival  of 
Lady  Grindelay  was  at  its  height,  and  even  Reynolds  began 
to  think  a  miracle  might  be  wrought.  Desmond  was  full 
of  hope,  his  spirits  rose  unconsciously.  He  talked  with  his 
mother,  in  her  new  and  strange  recrudescence,  about  what 
was  to  be  done  with  Biddy  and  the  child.  Whatever  it  was  to 
be,  must  be  done  quickly.  He  would  not  forget  his  obligations, 
but  both  he  and  Lady  Grindelay  agreed  that  it  must  be  sent 
from  Marley,  away  for  the  moment  from  the  girl's  sight. 

"  She  must  be  brought  to  forget  it.  When  you  have  the 
licence  I  will  make  the  opportunity  for  you  to  use  it.  She 
will  not  disregard  my  last  wish,  my  dying  wish." 

"  But  you  are  getting  better.''  He  was  sitting  by  the  bed, 
and  he  put  his  head  on  the  pillow  beside  her  own.  "  You 
don't  know  how  bad  it  wasi  when  you  were  in  pain,  mother; 
you'll  get  well  now?  Everything  will  come  right  if  you  get 
well." 

To  have  him  lying  there,  his  handsome  curly  head  so  near, 
his  loving  words  in  her  ear,  was  wonderful  to  her,  a  happiness 
she  must  deserve. 

"  I  will  get  well  if  I  can.  There  are  so  many  things  I 
want  to  say  to  you.  You  came  to  me  when  I  was  already  old, 
I  knew  so  little  about  boys  and  men.  And  men !  I  have  never 
cared  for  any  man  but  you.  Other  women  are  not  like  that, 
and  I  ...  I  found  it  out  too  late.  Lying  here,  I  see 
so  many  of  my  mistakes.  Andrew  was  right;  I  ought  never 
to  have  tried  to  stand  alone.  I  want  to  put  everything  right 
before  I  go,  I  want  to  see  you  married." 

"Dear  old  mother !  " 

"  You  must  have  someone  to  care  for  you  when  I  am  gone. 


FULL  SWING  331 

There  are  women  who  sliould  never  marry.  I  was  one  of 
them,  but  Eunice  is  different." 

"  If  you  had  never  married  there  would  never  have  been 
me.    Say  you  are  glad  I  am  here." 

"  I  am  only  thinking  how  I  can  make  up  to  you  for  all 
you  have  missed." 

"  I  haven't  missed  anything." 

"  Only  a  mother,"  she  said  rather  pitifully,  her  old  lips 
aquiver.  "  But  I  will  give  you  a  wife.  Go  and  talk  to  her 
now.     I  want  to  be  alono " 


When  he  found  her,  he  began  gingerly.  Eunice  was  not 
as  even-tempered  as  she  had  been;  she  flamed  out  on  slight 
provocation.  She  who  had  once  been  content  to  fetch  and 
carry  for  him,  now  eluded  and  evaded  him,  would  sometimes 
speak  to  him  and  sometimes  not,  keeping  him  humble. 

"Will  you  come  and  see  the  orchid  with  me?  Mother 
wants  us  to  report  upon  it  to  her.  Sanders  sent  up  word  to 
say  that  all  the  spikes  are  in  bloom." 

Eunice  made  one  excuse  or  another,  said  she  had  to  go 
to  the  town,  she  did  not  want  to  go  out,  that  it  was  not  neces- 
sary they  should  visit  the  orchid  house  together.  But  when 
he  met  excuse  after  excuse  and  persisted,  she  yielded,  not 
with  a  good  grace,  but  impulsively,  becoming  silent  after 
she  had  agreed  to  go  with  him. 

When  they  were  going  towards  the  hot-house  he  said 
tentatively : 

"  She  is  going  to  sleep  until  four ;  Reynolds  is  darkening 
the  room ;  she  wants  to  be  alone.  When  we've  seen  the  orchid 
we  might  go  into  the  woods." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  into  the  woods/'  she  answered  hastily, 
"not  with  you." 

"Never?" 

"  Never !  "    She  quickened  her  step. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  orchid  or  the  correctness 
of  Sanders'  report.  From  the  glass  roof  of  the  steaming 
house  there  hung  down  great  masses  and  clusters  of  bloom. 


332  FULL  SWING 

shy,  still  in  their  sheath  of  green,  but  giving  rare  promise. 
They  gazed  at  it  in  wonder,  it  was  a  thing  for  anyone  to 
wonder  at.  Fifty  years  it  had  hung  there,  dry  and  arid,  then 
green,  but  never  like  this. 

"  If  she  could  only  have  seen  it !  " 

When  they  spoke  of  Lady  Grindelay,  and  the  improbability 
of  her  seeing  it,  their  hearts  grew  tender.  She  had  been  such 
a  force  about  them,  her  influence  the  most  dominating  thing 
in  their  lives,  her  kindness  unending.  They  began  to  talk 
of  her  illness,  to  say  she  might  yet  see  the  flowers,  to  remind 
each  other  that  a  week  ago  she  could  hardly  talk  to  .them,  was 
always  under  morphia,  but  that  to-day  she  had  sat  up  in  bed. 

Talking,  they  moved  out  of  the  steaming  house.  Now  they 
were  in  the  air  again,  feeling  the  slight  chill.  But  the  sun 
shone,  the  afternoon  sun. 

"  We've  got  to  face  it,"  he  began  suddenly,  a  little  des- 
perately perhaps.  "  Look  here,  Eunice.  What's  the  good  of 
going  on  like  this,  hiding  our  heads?     We've  got  to  talk  it 

out." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean."    But  she  did.    "  I'm  going 

back  to  the  house." 

"  No,  you're  not,"  he  caught  hold  of  her  arm. 

"  You're  hurting  me." 

"And  don't  you  think  you're  hurting  me?  What  do  you 
imagine  I'm  feeling  day  after  day,  when  you  hardly  look  at 
me?    I  thought  we'd  made  it  up." 

Made  it  up!  The  old  childish  phrase.  How  dared  he? 
She  shook  herself  free  from  him,  or  she  would  have  done,  but 
he  held  her  fast. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  just  yet.  I'm  not  a  criminal 
You  may  not  care  for  me  any  more,  but  I  am  not  a  criminal." 

Her  heart  was  water  and  ran  to  him,  but  her  words  were 
hail  and  M\  upon  him.  He  could  not  see  her  heart;  he  sur- 
mised, but  could  not  see  it. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  are,  you  are  nothing  to  me."  Her 
flush  belied  her  words.  "  What  is  the  use  of  pretending  we 
are  intimaies,  or  friends?  I  should  always  feel  now  that  you 
were  keeping  things  from  me." 


FULL  SWING  333 

"  No,  you  don't,  you  know  I'm  not,  that  I  never  would 
again.     Come  into  the  woods." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  know,  but  you  must ;  we  must  do  something,  arrange 
something.  She  talks  of  nothing  else,  nothing  but  you  and 
me  together  here.  She  wants  me  to  get  a  special  licence,  that 
we  should  be  married  by  her  bedside." 

"  She  doesn't  know  what  I  feel  about  it ;  neither  do  you, 
I  believe.  When  I  think  about  marrying  you,  or  she  speaks 
about  it  to  me,  I — I  can't  bear  it."  There  was  an  indignant 
sob  in  her  throat.  "  I  get  hot  and  angry,  I  can't  say  the  words 
I  mean.     You  know  yourself  it's  impossible." 

"  No,  I  don't.     I've  never  cared  for  anyone  else." 

"  Not  even  for  your  poor  little  baby  ?  " 

"  You  think  of  her  all  the  time,  brood  upon  her." 

"  I  don't  brood  upon  her." 

"You're  first  with  me,  you'll  always  be  first.  I  can't 
argue  with  you.  Come  into  the  woods,  let  us  talk.  You  and 
I  can't  go  on  like  this,  half -strangers ;  when  it  used  to  be  so 
beautiful  between  us.  I  want  to  know  all  you  are  thinking, 
everything  that  is  in  your  heart  about  me." 

She  went  with  him  ultimately,  feigning  reluctance,  per- 
sisting that  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him.  He  led  her,  not 
without  design,  perhaps,  to  that  oasis  in  the  woods  where 
reigned  the  giant  oak  whose  leaves  had  rustled  above  them  the 
first  time  that  he  told  her  it  was  not  as  a  sister  he  loved  her. 
He  could  not  guess  how  often  she  had  sat  there  since,  her  heart 
full  of  him.  Here  she  had  dreamed  her  dreams,  wept  for  his 
wounds,  sat  agonised  when  there  came  no  news  of  him,  felt 
his  presence  when  he  was  not  beside  her.  This  was  his  tree 
and  hers,  always  she  had  thought  of  it  so.. 

"  Eunice,"  his  voice  pleaded,  "  how  often  we've  played 
here.  You  haven't  forgotten  it,  have  you?  You  don't  really 
hate-me  ?  You  can't.  We  could  not  feel  differently  about  each 
other — not  really  differently.  However  bad  you  thought  me 
you'd  always  remember  our  good  days  together." 

Tears  were  rising,  not  in  her  eyes,  but  in  her  heart. 


334  FULL  SWING 

"  You  used  to  love  me,  not  like  I  did  you,  but  so  sweetly. 
And  I  meant  to  teach  you  better." 

How  well  she  had  loved  him,  a  thousand  times  more  than 
he  could  ever  have  loved  her.    The  tears  began  to  fall. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you,  don't  turn  your  face  from  me." 
But  she  leaned  against  the  tree,  and  he  never  saw  her  tears. 
"  Well,  look  away  if  you  like,  but  you've  got  to  hear  what  I 
say;  I'm  almost  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  We  ought  to  have 
been  married  three  weeks  ago,  we  should  have  been  married 
if  it  had  not  been  for  this.  I  should  have  told  you  every- 
thing, I  should  have  told  you  on  our  wedding-night.  Now  I'm 
desperate  and  half  afraid ;  but  you've  got  to  hear  it."  There 
was  a  pause,  and  then  he  began  again.  "  I  was  little  more 
than  a  boy,  I'd  been  ill,  was  feeling  neglected ;  you  both  stayed 
away,  although  I  was  at  death's  door.  The  thing  one  must 
not  say,  that  I  ought  not  to  say,  I  am  going  to  say  to  you, 
because" — his  voice  faltered — "because  you  were  so  nearly 
my  wife." 

"  But  she  was — she  was  quite  your  wife." 

"  That's  cruel,  don't  be  cruel,  Eunice,  it  isn't  like  you. 
I  can't  sleep  and  I  can't  eat;  you  can  see  it  for  yourself.  I 
act  before  my  mother,  but  I  can't  go  on  acting  much  longer, 
and  besides,  she  knows  how  it  is  with  me.  What  I  am  telling 
you  now  is  what  no  man  should  tell  anyone,  except,  perhaps, 
his  wife.  And  I'm  not  sure  he  ought  to  tell  her.  She  .  .  . 
she  offered  herself  to  me." 

His  voice  fell,  his  face  and  eyes  flushed. 

"  I  ought  not  to  say  it,  but  I  must,  I — of  course  I  ought 
to  have  resisted;  I  did  resist  at  first.  I  was  only  a  boy — 
Eunice,  my  love,  my  sweetheart,  my  little  innocent.  Oh, 
God !  how  can  I  make  you  understand  ?  "  There  were  beads 
of  perspiration  on  his  forehead.  "  I  was  only  nineteen.  She 
came  to  me " 

He  broke  off,  he  could  not  go  on.  But  presently  she  found 
herself  in  his  arms,  their  tears  mingling. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more." 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me.    I've  never  loved  anyone  else." 

"  Let  me  forget  it — make  me  forget  it." 


FULL  SWING  335 

"I  will.     I  swear  I  will.     Kjss.  me.     Say  everything  is 

as  it  used  to  be " 

"  Oh !   Desmond !  "   she  said  wildly. 

***** 

He  told  his  mother  that  evening  what  he  understood,  or 
misunderstood  himself.  That  it  was  all  right  between  them, 
but  Eunice  had  better  not  be  hurried.  The  baby  must  be 
got  out  of  the  house,  she  must  be  given  time  to  forget.  He 
could  wait  now,  now  that  he  knew  she  still  cared  for  him 
and  would  never  leave  them  again. 


CHAPTEK  XXXI 

Later  on,  after  Lady  Grindelay  had  been  settled  up  for  the 
night,  and  Desmond  and  Eunice  were  both  happily  asleep, 
dreaming,  perhaps,  of  each  other,  two  things  happened  under 
the  roof  that  sheltered  them;  two  unrelated  things. 

Biddy,  who  for  an  unwonted  time  had  kept  sober,  got 
drunk.  She  drank  steadily  all  through  the  day  and  night, 
and  at  daybreak  lay  in  a  drunken  sleep.    That  was  the  first. 

The  second  was  that  Lady  Grindelay,  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  suddenly,  and  for  no  ostensible  cause, 
found  herself  broad  awake,  with  the  knowledge,  cold  and  in- 
controvertible, that  the  end  was  in  sight.  She  was  not  in 
pain,  although  pain  lay  in  wait.  But  she  was  dying — dying. 
The  world  was  to  go  on  without  her ;  her  charities  at  Marley, 
all  she  had  done  and  left  undone;  Desmond.  Dying!  How 
strange  it  was,  and  dreary  and  cold;  the  cold  was  perhaps 
the  worst. 

She  was  very  tired,  exhausted  with  her  long  struggle, 
needing  rest.  She  looked  at  pale  Death  and  smiled.  Only 
for  a  moment;  then  her  face  changed.  Through  the  lethargy 
that  had  almost  fallen  upon  her  broke  that  familiar  call  of 
conscience.  Her  work  was  not  done.  Here  there  was  nothing 
waiting  for  her  but  pain.  There,  with  Death,  was  rest.  But 
she  could  not  go. 

She  began  to  think  of  her  son,  and,  strangely  enough, 
of  Andrew  McKay.  Both  of  them  had  asked  gifts  from  her 
and  both  she  had  sent  empty  away ;  she,  Avho  loved  giving ! 
For  Andrew  it  was  too  late,  there  was  no  use  thinking  about 
it.  But  Desmond !  She  owed  him  so  much,  she  had  not 
been  a  tender  or  comprehending  mother  in  those  early  days. 
Now  he  seemed  to  fill  the  world.  She  had  loved  no  man  until 
this  one  grew  to  manhood.  And  she  knew  now,  although  it 
was  so  late,  what  love  meant,  what  was  the  fulfilment  of  it. 

"My  son!" 

336 


FULL  SWING  337 

Into  the  words  had  come  passion;  they  were  like  a  new 
and  passionate  prayer  on  her  dying  lips.  She  must  do  some- 
thing for  him  before  she  went.  There  was  nothing  else  in 
her  mind.  For  herself  she  wanted  neither  salvation  nor 
solace;  she  desired  only  to  give  him  a  last  gift  before  she 
died.  She  would  live  until  the  next  day,  see  them  married 
by  her  bedside,  leave  someone  in  her  place  to  care  for  him. 
She  was  resolute  to  stay  until  she  had  done  this. 

At  three  o'clock  the  nurse  brought  her  medicine;  a  morphia 
cachet  to  be  dissolved  in  lemonade.  She  had  already  deter- 
mined she  would  not  take  it;  knowing  it  dulled  her  mind 
as  well  as  her  body.  Pain  or  no  pain  she  would  keep  her 
mind  clear  until  she  had  arranged  for  Desmond  and  Eunice 
to  be  married  by  her  bedside,  and  so  had  given  him  his  bride. 

Her  hands  were  swollen  and  a  little  stiff ;  the  night  nurse 
was  yawning  and  unobservant.  Lady  Grindelay  took  the 
cachet,  and  let  it  fall  into  her  lemonade.  When  the  nurse 
held  the  glass  to  her  lips,  thinking  she  had  swallowed  it,  she 
moistened  her  lips  only,  then  watched  the  white  envelope 
melt  and  sink,  discharging  its  contents. 

The  nurse  went  back  to  her  sofa,  and  Agatha  lay  and 
thought  of  her  son.  The  first  tiling  in  the  morning  she  would 
send  for  a  clergyman,  not  to  absolve  her,  there  was  no  time, 
and  she  was  not  thinking  of  herself,  but  only  of  her  son, 
and  his  young,  yearning  manhood,  of  how  little  she  had  ever 
done  for  liim,  of  all  her  mistakes.  In  the  morning  the  clergy- 
man should  marry  them  by  her  bedside,  then  there  would  be 
nothing  to  keep  her  here,  she  could  rest. 

Slowly  the  dawn  crept  into  the  room — the  night  nurse 
slept  peacefully  and  well.    Agatha  lay  awake  and  suffered. 

She  thought  it  was  the  presence  of  the  baby  upstairs  that 
kept  Eunice  so  reluctant  and  shy  of  Desmond.  It  ought  never 
to  have  come  here,  never  to  have  come  to  Marley. 

WTien  she  repeated  that  to  herself  she  heard  the  baby  cry- 
ing; crying  in  the  night.  It  was  a  dream,  of  course,  a  dying 
woman's  dream.  She  was  sensible  enough  to  know  that.  For 
the  child  was  a  long  way  from  her,  in  another  wing  of  the 
house. 
22 


338  FULL  SWING 

The  light  grew  stronger.  Not  the  light  at  the  end  of  the 
channel  where  pale  Death  stood  to  welconae  her,  but  the  dawn 
in  the  room. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  night  nurse  yawned  and  stretched 
herself,  and  woke  again.    Meeting  Lady  Grindelay's  eyes,  she 

said: 

"  You've  had  a  nice  sleep,  haven't  you  ?  Shall  I  make  you 
a  cup  of  tea,  or  will  you  have  your  lemonade  ?  " 

In  the  lemonade  lay  her  surcease  from  pain,  the  end  of 
the  conflict. 

"  I  will  have  the  lemonade  later.  Pull  up  the  blinds,  find 
out  if  Miss  Eunice  is  up,  I  want  to  see  her  as  soon  as  she  is 
dressed."    She  wanted  to  tell  Eunice  what  she  had  planned. 

"  I  don't  think  anyone  in  the  house  is  up  yet,  it  is  very 
early,"  yawned  the  nurse.  She  was  hardly  awake.  She  had 
slept  all  the  afternoon  and  most  of  the  night,  and  was  still 
sleepy. 

"I  hear  them  stirring,"  Lady  Grindelay  persisted.  But 
what  she  heard  was  the  baby  crying,  as  she  had  heard  it  these 
last  two  hours. 

This  time  it  was  not  a  dream,  it  could  not  be  a  dream,  a 
baby  was  crying  outside  her  room,  and  she  heard  Eunice  too, 
and  voices  raised  as  if  in  altercation,  Eeynolds's  voice,  and 
Eunice's. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  she  asked.  "  What  is  the  matter? 
Open  the  door."  Pale  Death  had  vanished  from  the  room. 
She  was  back  here  in  Marley,  in  her  own  bedroom,  with  work 
to  do. 

Eunice  was  outside,  sobbing  and  excited.  Eeynolds  was 
trying  to  prevent  her  coming  in,  was  arguing  with  her.  Lady 
Grindelay  heard  what  they  were  saying. 

"  She  was  sitting  up  yesterday.  I'm  sure  she  won't  mind 
my  going  in ;  I  know  she  is  awake  because  I  heard  the  blinds 
being  pulled  up.  She  must  see  baby ;  she  will  know  what  we 
ought  to  do.    Let  me  pass." 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  the  weak  voice  called  out.  The  nurse 
opened  the  door.    "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Eunice  had  a  screaming  baby  in  her  arms.    From  where 


FULL  SWING  339 

Agatha  lay,  grey  among  her  pillows,  feeling  the  cold  creeping 
to  her,  she  saw  them  both. 

Her  aunt  might  have  been  better  or  worse;  it  was  true 
that  yesterday  she  had  been  sitting  up.  Eunice  had  really  no 
eyes  for  her,  she  was  completely  absorbed  in  the  baby. 

"  I  heard  her  crying  and  crying,  I  listened  at  the  door  in 
the  night  and  heard  her  crying.  I  couldn't  make  Biddy  hear. 
She  was  snoring,  lying  on  her  back.  I  took  baby  away  into 
my  own  bed,  and  tried  to  comfort  her.  But  she  got  worse 
and  worse."  Her  tears  were  falling  on  the  baby's  convulsed 
and  twitching  face;  "Auntie,  there  is  something  the  matter, 
I'm  sure  she  is  in  pain,  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Come  nearer." 

"  Eeynolds  said  I  was  not  to  disturb  you,  but  no  one  else 
knows  what  to  do  for  her." 

"  You  were  right  to  come." 

Eeynolds  interposed  that  she  had  already  sent  for  the 
doctor. 

"  He  can't  be  here  for  an  hour,"  Eunice  answered. 

On  a  wave  of  semi-consciousness,  with  pain  as  an  under- 
current, Agatha  became  confused  as  to  what  was  happening ; 
the  room  seemed  over  full  of  people  from  Little  Marley  and 
Great  Marley,  coming  to  her  for  help — a  great  concourse  of 
them.  She  brought  herself  back  with  an  effort,  and  now  all 
she  heard  was  the  girl  crying  over  the  baby,  Desmond's  baby. 
That  was  why  she  had  not  married  Desmond.  Was  that  why 
she  was  crying?  Eunice  went  on  talking,  coming  nearer  to 
the  bed,  but  looking  only  at  the  baby  in  her  arms,  never  at 
her  aunt. 

"  She  is  so  fearfully  restless,  I  can  hardly  hold  her.  I 
gave  her  a  teaspoonful  of  milk,  and  she  sucked  and  sucked 
the  spoon ;  her  throat  and  eyes  seem  parched,  and  she  screams 
or  moans  all  the  time." 

Eeynolds,  full  of  concern  for  her  mistress,  would  have 
taken  the  child,  but  Eunice  resisted. 

"  Give  her  to  me,  don't  trouble  your  aunt,  Miss  Eunice — 
the  doctor  will  soon  be  here.'' 

"  Lay  it  beside  me." 


340  FULL  SWING 

Of  course  her  mind  was  not  in  a  normal  condition,  it  was 
floating  somewhere  on  the  borderland,  as  it  had  been  these 
last  few  hours. 

Eunice  laid  the  baby  gently  beside  her. 

"  I  was  right  to  bring  her  to  you,  wasn't  I  ?  Jack  Eeid 
can't  be  here  for  an  hour.  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?  I  didn't 
startle  you,  did  I?    I  knew  you  were  awake." 

"  You  were  quite  right." 

Eeynolds,  now  that  the  matter  had  been  taken  out  of  her 
hands,  began  to  retail  the  child's  symptoms.  She,  too,  had 
always  depended  upon  Lady  Grindelay.  Neither  of  them 
noticed  the  change  in  her. 

Eunice  only  said  again : 

"  Can't  you  do  something,  auntie,  before  the  doctor 
comes  ?  " 

Eunice  was  almost  beside  herself  in  face  of  the  inarticu- 
late suffering  and  her  inability  to  assuage  it. 

Agatha  lay  still  whilst  Eeynolds  told  of  the  strange  symp- 
toms. Her  mind  was  not  quite  there,  although  they  thought 
she  was  listening. 

"  I  must  say  I've  never  seen  anything  like  it.  She  seems 
not  to  see  what's  before  her,  to  be  wandering,  and  then 
excited.  Her  cries  are  hoarse,  but  it  isn't  croup.  And  look 
how  thirsty  she  is.  Miss  Eunice  gave  her  milk,  but  I  let  her 
sup  a  little  water.    Look  at  her  now." 

The  baby  tried  to  sit  up;  the  excitement  of  which  Eey- 
nolds spoke  was  in  the  scarlet  cheeks  and  groping  arms  and 
cries. 

"  That's  your  lemonade  she's  after  now.  Poor  lamb,  she's 
parched  with  thirst." 

The  dying  woman  was  swaying  on  those  waves  of  semi- 
consciousness, the  pain  almost  submerging  her. 

"  It's  your  lemonade  the  poor  little  thing  is  after." 

"  Give  it  to  her." 

"  I  need  not  give  her  your  lemonade ;  I'll  get  some  water," 
Eeynolds  answered. 

"  There's  a  fresh  jug  outside,"  Eunice  said  quickly.  She 
took  up  the  cup.    "  Shall  I  give  it  to  her,  auntie  ?  " 


FULL  SWING  341 

"  Give  mo  the  cup." 

Two  red  spots  burned  now  in  her  grey  cheeks.  In  the 
lemonade  was  surcease  from  pain ;  she  would  give  that,  or 
anything,  that  Eunice  should  not  cry,  should  give  herself 
happily  to  Desmond,  should  not  cry  about  his  baby.  "Let 
me  give  it  her  myself." 

Reynolds  supported  Lady  Grindelay,  helping  her  trembling 
hands  when  she  tried  to  give  the  cup  to  the  baby.  The  baby 
seized  upon  it  as  if  it  had  been  her  bottle,  only  that  at  first 
her  hands  were  like  the  hands  of  the  blind,  groping,  and  she 
caught  the  sleeve  of  Agatha's  nightgown  instead  of  the  cup. 
But  when  the  cup  had  been  guided  to  her  mouth  she  drank 
and  drank  thirstily,  sucking  it  down;  they  could  not  get  the 
cup  away  from  her,  she  sucked  and  sucked.  When  she  had 
finished  all  there  was  in  it  she  let  go,  not  until  then.  Eey- 
nolds  laid  Lady  Grindelay  back,  and  the  baby  beside  her.  The 
baby  had  grown  quieter  immediately.  It  was  only  then  Eey- 
nolds  saw  how  ill  Lady  Grindelay  looked.  She  thought  the 
exertion  had  been  too  much  for  her,  that  she  had  fainted. 

"'  Oh,  my  goodness,  look  at  her.  Give  me  the  smelling 
bottle — quick,  nurse.  Have  you  the  brandy?  Get  the 
brandy ! " 

"I  think  she's  better;  I  really  think  she  seems  easier," 
Eunice  said,  bending  over  the  quieted  baby. 

Nurse  came  quickly  at  Reynolds's  call,  and  she  and  the 
maid  exchanged  glances. 

"  You'd  better  take  the  child  away,"  the  nurse  said  hastily. 
Reynolds  was  holding  the  smelling  salts;  Agatha's  nostrils 
were  pinched,  and  her  breath  was  fluttering.  *'  You  have  sent 
for  the  doctor,  haven't  you?"  she  added  in  a  low  voice  to 
Reynolds.  "  I  do  believe  she's  gone,"  the  nurse  said  a  minute 
later.  "I  can't  feel  her  pulse."  They  could  not  get  the 
brandy  down. 

Eunice  went  away  as  she  was  told,  carrying  the  heavily 
breathing  child.  Vaguely  she  knew  that  her  aunt  had  fainted, 
but  it  was  for  the  baby  she  was  concerned. 

Dr.  Reid  came,  and  Jack  with  him.  There  were  strych- 
nine and  ether,  a  cylinder  of  oxygen.     Lady  Grindelay  was 


342  FULL  SWING 

not  to  be  allowed  to  die.  Science  and  the  young  man  decreed 
it,  and  the  old  man  could  not  restrain  them.  They  succeeded 
in  reviving  her,  and  the  first  faint  words  they  heard  her  say 
were: 

"  Did  the  clergyman  come  ?  " 

Nobody  knew  she  had  asked  for  a  clergyman.  Nobody 
had  thought  of  such  a  thing ;  it  was  so  unlike  Lady  Grindelay, 
unexpected. 

"We  will  send  at  once."  It  was  Jack  who  answered. 
"  You  will  rest  quietly  until  then." 

They  gave  her  brandy  and  Valentine's  juice,  and  another 
injection  of  strychnine ;  they  would  keep  life  in  her. 

She  was  very  drowsy.    "  He  won't  be  long,  will  he  ?  " 

"  No,  he  won't  be  long." 

But  when  the  hastily  summoned  vicar  arrived  they  would 
not  disturb  her.  She  was  sleeping,  her  breathing  calmer, 
the  pulse  improved.    Jack  Eeid  had  justified  himself. 

Late  that  afternoon,  when  she  woke  to  something  more 
like  consciousness,  Andrew  McKay  was  sitting  by  her  side. 
The  doctors  were  gone;  they  were  still  in  the  house,  but  all 
she  knew  was  that  they  were  not  there,  and  that  she  and 
Andrew  were  alone. 

"  That  is  you,  isn't  it,  Andrew  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  very  faint;  it  seemed  to  come  from  a  long 
way  off.  Her  lover,  faithful,  although  unfulfilled,  answered 
softly : 

"  Yes,  Agatha,  it  is  I.    You've  been  asleep  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  am  dying  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Don't  be  sorry.    I'm  glad  to  go." 

He  could  not  speak  at  that  moment,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
thinking. 

"What  is  troubling  me,  Andrew?"  she  said  again;  she 
seemed  to  be  confused.    "It  isn't  the  orchid,  is  it?" 

He  answered  quietly: 

"  The  orchid  is  in  full  bloom,  glorious  bloom." 

"  The  blue  flower."  And  she  added,  drowsily :  "  I  never 
found  it!" 


FULL  SWING  343 

He  took  her  hand,  the  hand  that  lay  outside  the  counter- 
pane, no  longer  beautiful  and  slender,  but  heavy  and  swollen. 
He  kissed  it,  nevertheless.  Andrew,  the  staid  and  grizzled 
lawyer !  He  to  be  kissing  her  hand !  Something  like  a  smile 
seemed  to  drift  over  her  face. 

"  You  have  been  very  faithful !  " 

He  did  not  answer  that. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  dear  ?  "  His  voice 
was  stifled,  speech  was  difficult. 

"  You  would  like  a  cutting.  Tell  Sanders  I  said  you  were 
to  have  a  cutting." 

He  had  been  sitting  there  a  long  time,  ever  since  the  doc- 
tors had  left.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done,  they  had 
brought  her  back,  but  only  for  a  short  time ;  the  light  was  on 
her  face,  the  opalescent,  unmistakable  light.  Andrew  sat 
beside  her  and  watched,  but  the  nurse  was  within  call. 

"  Desmond  ?  "  she  asked  presently. 

"  I  will  fetch  him."  He  rose  heavily,  he  was  even  now 
only  second  with  her.     ^'^I'll  fetch  him." 

She  called  him  back ;  he  heard  that  faint  voice,  a  whisper 
from  her  would  have  reached  him,  but  this  was  a  call ;  hoarse, 
urgent. 

"  Stop — ^wait,  Andrew !    Andrew,  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

He  came  back;  her  breathing  was  quick,  but  it  was  her 
eyes  that  startled  him ;  they  had  been  dying  eyes,  half-closed 
and  looking  into  the  distance,  now  they  were  open  and  there 
was  terror  in  them;  Andrew  thought  it  was  terror.  "My 
draught !  I  gave  her  my  draught,  so  that  Eunice  should  not 
cry.    What  have  I  done  ?    Is  it  dead  ?    Desmond's  child  ?  " 

She  asked  it  twice.  And  because  it  seemed  she  had  con- 
sciousness enough  left  to  wish  to  know,  he  answered  her  out 
of  the  depths  of  his  wisdom,  wisdom  only  of  this  world,  but 
out  of  his  love  and  comprehension  of  her  also.  He  answered 
gently,  and  with  her  poor  hand  in  his.  As  he  spoke  he  felt 
a  sudden  quickening  of  that  poor  hand,  a  spasm. 

"  And  if  it  be  dead,  Agatha,  it  is  better  so.  Poor  mite ! 
She  could  never  have  been  anything  but  a  complication  and 
a  difficulty.     She  had  no  place  here,  no  real  place,  nor  any- 


344  FULL  SWING 

where!     You're  not  distressed  about  anything,  Agatha,  are 


you 


?" 


"How?"  The  word  came  out.  None  followed,  but  her 
awakened  and  dying  eyes  implored  an.  answer. 

"  How  did  it  die  ?  You  want  to  know  how  or  why  the 
baby  died  ?    Perhaps  it  was  the  Lord  speaking.  .  .  .'' 

He  paused;  Andrew  McKay  had  always  been  a  religious 
man.    He  thought  now  of  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  God. 

"  Biddy  has  confessed,"  he  continued.  "  The  child  was 
poisoned;  it  was  an  accident." 

"  Poisoned  ?  " 

Agatha's  eyes  were  wide  open  with  a  terrified  question. 
He  answered  soothingly. 

"  It  is  all  right.  I  will  see  that  the  best  is  done  for 
Biddy." 

All  the  pangs  of  death  assailed  her;  the  shallow  breath 
and  faintness,  the  heart  that  beat  and  stopped,  the  desperate 
sickness,  but  she  fought  them  all. 

"Tell  me." 

"Biddy  has  confessed.  Young  Eeid  thought  there  was 
something  the  matter  with  the  child's  eyes;  he  was  testing 
them  with  atropine.  Biddy  had  orders  to  drop  it  in  the 
eyes,  one  drop  in  each.  Instead  she  gave  it  as  medicine,  the 
whole  bottle.  She  has  been  crying  and  raving  ever  since, 
accusing  herself." 

"  She  didn't  do  it,  Andrew;  /  did  it !  " 

Agatha's  voice  was  very  faint.  He  thought  she  was  wan- 
dering, and  soothed  her. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  Lord  speaking.  A  good  thing,  per- 
haps.   Don't  dwell  upon  it." 

"  Andrew ! " 

"I'm  here,  dear." 

"  Andrew,  help  me !  " 

He  went  down  on  his  knees,  his  stiff  old  knees ;  he  thought 
it  was  help  through  the  passage  she  wanted.    His  voice  shook : 

"  Give  her  comfort  and  sure  confidence  in  Thee,  Iceep  her 
in  perpetual  peace  and  safety,  through  Jesus  Christ." 


FULL  SWING  345 

"Leave  off  praying,  it  is  too  late.  I  killed  Desmond's 
child." 

Andrew  stood  up. 

"  I  did  it,  Andrew.  So  that  Eunice  should  not  cry ;  I  did 
it  for  Desmond.  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it.  ...  I  can't 
remember.  Write  it  down.  There's  no  barrier  between  them 
now.  I  did  it  for  my  son,  for  my  Desmond,  so  that  he  should 
have  his  heart's  desire.    Now  I  can't  die.  .  .  ." 

She  left  off  speaking,  but  had  not  strength  to  close  her 
eyes.  Under  the  half-closed  lids  they  were  still  alive  and 
dreadful. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"  I  killed  it,  I  know.    I  did  it  on  purpose.  .  .  .*' 

"  No,  Agatha,  no ;  don't  say  so.    It  isn't  true !  " 

"  It  wasn't  Biddy,"  she  said  again. 

The  words  came  through,  jerkily,  and  with  difficulty,  but 
they  came  through. 

"  The  morphia  was  in  the  lemonade.  My  son,  I  was  think- 
ing of  you,  Eunice  must  not  cry  .  .  .  you  will  be  married 
this  morning." 

She  went  on  murmuring,  saying  the  same  words  over  and 
over  again. 

The  blood  hammered  in  his  head ;  phrases  beat  about,  legal 

phrases. 

"Misadventure;  death  by  misadventure!"  was  the  chief 

of  them. 

"  It  wasn't  Biddy,  Andrew.    Write  it  down." 

It  might  be  true;  he  knew  it  was  true.  But  what  then? 
What  then?  Well,  that  he  must  save  her  from  the  conse- 
quences, save  her  memory.  For  soon  that  would  be  all  there 
was  left  to  save.    He  bent  over  her. 

"  Lie  quiet,  then ;  lie  quiet,  Agatha.  I'll  do  what  is  right. 
You  hear,  don't  you  ?  " 

She  murmured  something;  he  thought  it  was  her  son's 
name,  that  she  said  it  was  for  him.  When  he  went  out  of 
the  room  he  walked  like  a  very  old  man.  He  had  to  think 
what  was  to  be  done,  how  her  secret  was  to  be  kept.  But 
Biddy  must  not  suffer.     He  must  do  the  right  thing.     He 


346  FULL  SWING 

knew  that  what  she  had  told  him  was  true,  and  that  she  had 
blundered  for  the  last  time.  He  knew  the  child  had  been 
taken  into  her  room  that  morning.  Agatha!  She  had  com- 
mitted the  dreadful  irrevocable  deed,  and  said  it  was  on  pur- 
pose, that  there  should  be  no  barrier  between  Desmond  and 
Eunice.  There  was  blood  on  her  hands.  Agatha!  Impos- 
sible to  picture  his  agony  of  mind. 

The  old  doctor  met  him  outside  the  door  of  the  sick-room. 

"  No  change  ?  "  he  asked. 

Andrew  stopped  short;  he  did  not  know  what  he  was 
going  to  say. 

"  I  think  there  is  a  change,"  he  said  then,  slowly. 

"For  the  better?" 

"  Perhaps ;  she  is  not  fully  conscious,  does  not  know  what 
she  is  saying."  Andrew  would  take  no  risks.  "  I  don't  think 
she  knows  what  she  is  saying,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  am  surprised  if  that  is  so.  She  was  quite  clear  when 
I  saw  her  last.  I  thought  she  would  go  out  like  that.  A  dear, 
good  woman,  her  hand  was  always  open.  We  shall  miss  her 
here  in  Marley." 

He  went  in,  closing  the  door  behind  him  quietly. 

Andrew  stood  still  a  minute.  What  was  the  best  thing 
to  do?  She  must  make  no  confession,  he  had  her  reputation 
to  guard,  her  high  repute. 

As  he  stood  there  in  thought  Desmond  came  down  the 
stairs. 

"  I'm  just  rushing  off  to  the  chemist.  Jack  thinks  now 
the  child  is  coming  round,  reviving.  Keep  Biddy  from  going 
to  the  police  station,  will  you  ?    We  don't  want  a  scandal." 

"Biddy?" 

"  She  wants  to  give  herself  up." 

"  But  that  mustn't  be  allowed." 

"  I  knew  you'd  agree  about  that." 

Even  now  Andrew  did  not  understand.  If  Biddy  had  not 
given  the  baby  the  wrong  medicine,  why  had  she  confessed  to 
having  done  so?  Every  step  was  a  step  in  the  dark,  and  his 
heart  was  aching.  He  went  slowly  upstairs,  and  Biddy's 
voice  broke  on  his  ear. 


FULL  SWING  347 

"  An'  didn't  I  have  to  coax  and  coax  the  darlint  to  ut,  an' 
she,  as  if  she  knew,  turnin'  from  ut  apn  an'  agin,  an'  crym' 
out  an'  fightin'.  Och,  but  they'll  be  hangin'  me  in  me  grey 
hairs.    Ochone !  ochone !  " 

Biddy  was  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  scarcely  recovered 
from  her  debauch,  red-eyed  and  dishevelled.  Reynolds  was 
plying  her  with  more  brandy,  wisely. 

"You  won't  let  her  leave  the  house?"  the  lawyer  said. 
Reynolds  reassured  him. 

In  the  day  nursery,  where  Andrew  went  next,  Eunice  sat 
on  a  low  chair,  with  the  baby  girl  in  her  arms.  It  did  not 
seem  like  a  dying  child,  only  a  sleeping  one.  And  she  held 
it  as  if  it  were  an  inestimable  treasure,  closely,  with  wet, 
thankful  eyes. 

Jack  Reid  leant  against  the  mantelpiece,  watching  them 
with  a  gloomy  face. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  he  said.  "  If  Biddy  had  told  us 
earlier  I  could  have  given  an  injection;  now,  of  course,  it  is 
too  late." 

Eunice,  speaking  very  softly,  answered: 

"Didn't  Dr.  Reid  say  you  had  better  do  nothing?  She 
is  sleeping  so  beautifully,  little  darling !  " 

But  young  and  scientific  doctors  never  do  nothing.  Nature 
belittles  their  learning,  puts  them  to  shame. 

"  I  shall  try  an  injection  of  morphia  when  Desmond  gets 
back  with  it.    The  atropine  bottle  is  empty." 

"Biddy  may  have  spilled  some,"  Eunice  suggested. 
"Baby  may  only  have  had  very  little;  the  bottle  wasn't 
empty." 

"But  think  of  those  symptoms  you  described.  They'll 
come  on  again.  This  is  only  a  breathing  time;  you'll  see, 
she'll  wake  thirsty  and  confused." 

That  the  baby  should  get  well  without  treatment  made 
the  young  doctor  gloomy  and  doubtful.  All  the  time  he 
stood  there  he  complained  of  the  inaction  to  which  his  father 
had  urged  him  after  Biddy's  confession. 

"It's  absurd  to  be  doing  nothing.  I've  half  a  mind  to 
try  mustard  until  Desmond  comes  back  from  the  chemist." 


348  FULL  SWING 

Eunice  held  the  threatened  baby  close.  She  was  glad 
when  Jack  Eeid  went  out  of  the  room  with  the  old  lawyer. 

Jack  talked  to  Andrew  as  he  went. 

'^I  can't  make  it  out  at  all.  Biddy  must  have  given  the 
child,  according  to  her  own  account,  and  judging  from  the 
state  of  the  bottle,  at  least  a  twentieth  of  a  grain.  And  that 
ought  to  have  killed  it ;  it  was  practically  dying  when  I  came. 
We  lost  between  four  and  five  hours  through  not  knowing  what 
had  happened.  Now  it  is  sleeping  calmly,  pulse  and  breath- 
ing regular!  Can  there  be  anything  in  her  constitution,  I 
wonder,  some  abnormality?" 

He  had  all  his  degrees,  and  began  to  talk  scientifically 
about  abnormal  persons  and  their  idiosyncracies,  using 
strange-sounding  words  such  as  "  idiopathy."  Andrew  lis- 
tened with  half  an  ear. 

"  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  give  an  injection  of  mor- 
phia. That's  the  antidote,  you  know.  There  is  only  one 
antidote.  But  I've  run  out  of  it.  And  then,  what  d5es  the 
little  beggar  do  but  fall  asleep  ?  Now,  father  urges  me  to  wait ; 
but  I  think  it  is  an  awful  risk.  .  .  ." 

Andrew  was  an  intelligent  lawyer,  and,  although  he  was 
so  disturbed,  his  faculties  were  not  obscured. 

"  The  only  possible  antidote  ?  "  he  said  quickly.  "  The 
only  possible  antidote  to  what  Biddy  gave  her?" 

"  That's  so,  there's  nothing  abstruse  about  that.  It  is  in 
all  the  text  books.  '  In  case  of  atropine  poisoning,  give 
morphia.' " 

It  was  as  if  a  weight  were  rolling  off  him,  as  if  he  could 
breathe  again,  and  freely;  as  if  the  goodness  of  God  were 
again  made  manifest. 

"  That  explains  everything,"  he  exclaimed — "  every- 
thing ! " 

"  Explains  everything ! "  Jack  repeated,  staring  at  him. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  baby  lias  been  given  the  antidote." 

"Wliat  antidote?  Who  has  prescribed  for  it?  There  has 
been  no  one  here  but  my  father  and  myself." 

''No    one    has    prescribed    it,"    Andrew    said    solemnly. 


FULL  SWING  349 

"By  the  mercy  of  God,  ])y  His  great  goodness,  a  mistake  has 
been  made." 

"  A  mistake !  "  repeated  Jack  again,  stupidly. 

"  The  child  has  had  the  antidote.  She  was  taken  into  Lady 
Grindelay's  room  this  morning,  as  you  know.  She  was  given 
her  lemonade  to  drink.  There  was  a  morphia  cachet  dissolved 
in.  the  cup." 

"  Good  God !  " 

"  One  of  Lady  Grindelay's  morphia  cachets." 

"  Good  God!  "  Jack  said  again,  and  stared  at  him.  After 
a  moment's  pause  he  added : 

"  Then  I  was  right  all  through."  Andrew  never  knew 
how  he  arrived  at  that  conclusion. 

"  A  quarter  of  a  grain !  I  shouldn't  have  given  her  quite 
so  much  as  that  myself,  though." 

Back  to  Agatha's  room  again,  and  as  swiftly  as  possible, 
went  Andrew, 

"  Her  vitality  is  extraordinary,"  the  old  doctor  whispered 
as  he  met  him.  "  She  spoke  of  the  orchid,  said  a  spray  was 
to  be  laid  on  her  coffin.  *  Mind  Andrew  has  a  cutting,'  she 
said  twice.  She  took  me  for  Sanders,  I  suppose.  She  spoke 
of  a  magistrate !  Do  you  think  she  could  want  to  see  Camp- 
den  ?  They  are  old  friends,  I  know.  If  so,  he  should  be  sent 
for  without  delay ;  the  end  is  very  near." 

"  No,  she  doesn't  want  to  see  Campden." 

He  Avent  in,  stood  again  beside  the  bed  Agatha's  e^^es 
were  still  alive  under  the  drooping  lids. 

"  Is  it  Desmond  ?  " 

"It  is  Andrew." 

"  What  will  they  do  to  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"Has  Desmond  married  Eunice?  I  can't  remember — I 
can't  remember  anything.  Does  he  think  I  did  it  on  purpose  ? 
I  wanted  him  to  be  happy,  to  help  him !  "  She  was  very  rest- 
Jess,  talking  quickly  and  sometimes  incoherently;  he  had  to 
stoop  to  hear  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  between  them  now.  What  does  it 
matter  about  me?    Let  Eunice  stay  with  you  a  little  while — 


350  FULL  SWING 

with  you  and  your  girls.  Then  they  can  get  married,  and 
come  back  here.  She  would  never  have  taken  him  with  the 
child  between  them.    I  am  glad  I  lived  long  enough  to  make 

everything  right "     Her  voice  trailed   off.     "Is  there 

blood  upon  my  hands  ?  Is  this  the  end  ?  "  In  her  dying  eyes 
were  tears,  the  saddest,  most  dreadful  sight.  "  My  son,  my 
little  son,  my  strong,  brave  son,  it  was  for  you.  .  .  ." 

"  You  didn't  kill  the  child,  Agatha.    Grace  has  been  given 

you — ^grace "    He  wanted  to  tell  her  about  the  goodness 

of  God,  but  a  sob  choked  him.  "You  did  not  kill  her, 
Agatha.     You  saved  her  life." 

t(  T  » 

"  The  great  and  wonderful  goodness  of  God  saved  her 
and  you.  You've  no  blood  upon  your  hands.  These  dear 
hands  have  no  stain  upon  them;  try  to  listen,  to  understand. 
He  would  not  let  you  do  this  wicked  thing.  He  knew  you 
were  not  yourself,  dear — not  yourself.  You,  who  have  been 
so  good  always,  and  charitable.  He  would  not  let  you  do 
this  thing." 

She  said  something  indistinguishable,  and  he  went  on : 
"You  gave  her  lemonade,  and  the  morphia  was  in  it.  I 
know,  dear,  I  know.  What  you  gave  her  was  the  antidote — 
the  antidote  to  what  Biddy  had  administered  in  error.  The 
antidote.  You  understand,  don't  you?  You  saved  her  life — 
under  God :  in  His  mercy.    You  saved  her  life." 

Agatha  opened  her  eyes;  and  it  was  upon  Andrew  they 
rested,  for  the  last  time. 

"  Did  I  ?  Another  blunder  ...  the  last.  .  .  ." 
She  spoke  her  own  epitaph.  The  end  had  come,  although 
the  breathing  went  on  for  a  long  time.  Jack  Eeid  gave  a 
name  to  it,  and  aired  his  knowledge.  He  said  it  was  "  Cheyne 
Stokes  breathing."  But  it  did  not  matter  what  he  said. 
Neither  of  the  old  men  would  let  him  disturb  her.  She  had 
made  her  last  mistake. 

When  Desmond  came  back  with  the  medicine  he  went  up 
to  the  nursery  in  his  old  way,  two  steps  at  a  time.  He  stopped 
short  when  he  saw  Eunice  there  with  his  child  in  her  arms. 


FULL  SWING  351 

The  baby  was  held  close  in  her  arms,  and  she  was  crying; 
they  were  tears  of  thanksgiving;  a  minute  ago  the  baby  had 
opened  her  blue  eyes,  and  smiled.  Eunice  was  kissing  the 
little  soft  face  when  Desmond  stopped  short  at  the  door. 

"  You're  crying !  " 

"  She  is  better,"  she  faltered. 

He  came  over  to  her. 

"  But,  Eunice,  Eunice,  you  can't  care " 

"  I  do — I  do !   I  love  her !  "     She  held  the  infant  closer. 

"  Then "    He  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her.    "  And  the 

father  of  her?  "  he  asked  softly. 

"  You  won't  send  her  away  ?  " 

"  I'll  not  take  anything  from  you  that  you  want." 

He  was  kneeling,  but  the  chair  on  which  she  sat  was  a 
low  one,  and  he  could  wipe  away  her  tears  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, 

"I  may,  mayn't  I?"  That,  too,  he  had  done  before, 
when  they  were  children,  when  she  had  fallen  and  hurt  her- 
self, and  at  all  times  of  her  young,  light  griefs  or  disappoint- 
ments. 

"  You've  forgiven  me  even  this  ?  " 

"I  want  to  be  her  mother,  she  shall  never  know  any 
difference." 

And  she  kept  her  word  in  the  happy  days  that  came,  long 
after  Agatha  had  been  buried,  a  spray  of  the  wonderful  blue 
orchid  on  her  coffin,  and,  more  wonderful  still,  her  memory 
for  ever  emblazoned  and  irradiated  because,  as  Andrew 
McKay  told  them,  at  the  end,  out  of  the  greatness  of  her  love 
and  generosity,  and  to  crown  her  beautiful  and  unselfish  life, 
she  had  given  the  draught  that  was  to  .have  eased  her  last 
pangs,  her  death  pangs,  to  quench  the  baby's  thirst,  saving  it 
thereby. 

That  was  the  way  Andrew  told  the  story,  the  way  he  came 
to  believe  it. 


7  000  05^^^^     ° 


